


Turpentine and Patches

by Indybaggins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon Related, Episode Related, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Explicit Sexual Content, Face-Fucking, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Rimming, Sex, Sleeping Together, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-18 20:19:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4719146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indybaggins/pseuds/Indybaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season three, Holmescest style! </p><p>Fifteen months in Mycroft and Sherlock’s lives - from Serbia to London, from John’s wedding to the tarmac, a lot of sex, desire, need and sacrifice... because that’s <i>what people do.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (29 October 2013)

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Incest, the first scene describes canon violence, torture and injuries, (very) explicit sex scenes throughout. 
> 
> Thanks go to Pickles7437 for the beta, Daasgrrl for her advice, and Jie_Jie for Brit-picking and the final read-through, I owe you all! <3

 

 

Mycroft does not _have_ to go undercover to get Sherlock.

He could just as well send a local operative or an active agent better trained for the job. There is no need whatsoever for it to be him, personally. No reason for it at all, in fact. 

But still he finds himself learning Serbian. Words and tenses, Mycroft drills them into his head at a studious, punishing pace. He checks on his gun accuracy, and some basic self-defence. Draws up a _persona_. 

And then infiltrates the Serbian military. 

He wears clothing that feels strangely loose around his body. Heavy boots that make him walk differently, in larger strides and with hard purpose. He smokes inexpensive cigarettes that grate his voice and leave a hot little hitch in the back of his throat. He eats pickled fish, dips into the juice with old, tough bread and chews slowly. He leans against walls and makes his body a thing that bends, his back damp with icy condensation. 

He moves among men that are nothing more than beasts, and they could hurt him - perhaps. But he could kill them, and the simplicity of that thought, the straightforwardness of it, is not unlikeable. 

Mycroft has not killed a man himself since he was in his twenties. He hasn’t done fieldwork in years either, and it is strange, how easily those skills fade beneath tailored suits, how they seem forgotten in dim offices, in-between streamlined furniture and dense conversation. And how easy it is to find them again now. 

It is highly unpleasant of course, fieldwork - Mycroft has never liked it. The people, the _noise_ , their greasy, self-satisfied manners and stupidity are a near-physical ache to endure. He does not fit in here, he does not belong in the slightest and Mycroft is aware of it with every breath that he draws. But the challenge of adapting himself, of _shaping_ himself into someone that might move among them feels interesting on more than a mere intellectual level. He is using himself as a tool. Projecting, threatening, at times placating. He can see why Sherlock enjoys this.

Mycroft feels unfamiliarly rough, here. As rough as this country, as these men. 

He manoeuvres himself through their ranks and connections, some with a distant nod, some with harsh words. His sentences are shorter, his words tenser to cover up his inexperience with this language, but it changes the way in which he is perceived, as well. They all believe that he is here to command. Accept it, because they see it in the lines of his body, in his eyes and in his face. 

By the time that Mycroft is in the same building as Sherlock, it has been five days. Five days of travelling from one military installation to the next, from one band of criminals to another. Five days in which he has not heard a word of the current political climate, has not had a single conversation in English, or seen a familiar face. It is more of a break than he has permitted himself in years, perhaps even a decade. 

Mycroft has not had a chance to wash properly in that time either and he can smell himself, as well as the scents of the men around him. Deeply masculine and stale. The sheer nastiness of people left alone to _rot and sweat and obey_. 

He is mainly impatient, now, knowing that Sherlock is so close, and he does little to disguise that fact. His obvious importance plus displeased expression makes the soldiers move faster, and they scuttle before him. _As they should._

And then finally, finally, some young guard escorts Mycroft to a base in the middle of nowhere, down into a cellar, and they bring him out. 

_Sherlock._

Mycroft can tell it is him immediately, from the shape of Sherlock’s back to the way that he draws breath, but yet this is a completely different creature than his beautiful brother. This one has been tormented, neglected; he seems raw and caged. Beaten. 

Sherlock’s feet are bare and pale on the wet stone floor. Long mats of dirty hair are falling over his eyes. 

Mycroft projects disinterest, of course. He leans back into a wobbly wooden chair, and crosses his feet over a stool. He gestures to the interrogator, and says, lazily, “ _Begin._ ”

There is paint on the walls that’s cracked and brittle. There is water dripping in an insistent pattern, and steam consistently curling up over the pipes, drifting upwards in the icy cold. 

There is Sherlock’s pained breathing. 

Sherlock’s arm muscles are tensing and quivering in the vague light as he sways in his chains. Wet ropes of spit tangled with blood dribble out of his mouth. Sweat beads on his skin, rolling down over his back despite the bone-deep cold in this space. 

The interrogator is holding a metal piece of pipe, and Sherlock groans loudly when it hits, rattles his chains when it rips another bit of skin open. 

Mycroft crosses his arms over his chest, crosses and re-crosses his legs, warming himself, supposedly. 

It is a performance, of course it is. But it is real as well, Sherlock’s suffering. The various wounds, some scabbed over, others still bleeding. Bruises, in all colours. 

The interrogator does not know his job well. 

Sherlock is strung up by his wrists, his arms pulled as far apart as they will go, bending over in agony, but yet he is not pulling him into that stretch. He is not touching him gently; he is not _seducing_ him with a slightly more bearable punishment. He is not carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, he is not whispering about release, and rest, and an end to his pain. 

Mycroft is aware that he could a much better job himself. 

There’s another hit, and Sherlock groans, too loud this time, unable to contain the real flash of a scream in there. 

The cellar smells like mould, dust and piss, but Mycroft can smell blood now as well, the metal tang of it in the air. Sherlock will pass out if this goes on, and Mycroft shifts, nearly-invisible, on his chair. _Stop it now, Sherlock. That’s enough._

The interrogator smiles coldly. He thinks that he is close to breaking him, but Sherlock strings it out. He leans down again, and sways. 

Merely for _his_ benefit, Mycroft suspects, and the thought creates a rushing sound in his ears. His vision grows increasingly dim - focused on Sherlock and Sherlock alone. Mycroft could stop this easily, and he is not, therefore it is _Mycroft’s_ hand that is using that pipe inexpertly. 

_Mycroft’s_ mouth that is ordering Sherlock to speak, again and again. Asking him _if he still remembers what sleep is_. 

Sherlock coughs wetly. 

Then cries out with genuine pain, and that makes Mycroft’s skin crawl, if this really was him then he would have touched Sherlock by now, pulled him down, and held him. 

Mycroft can barely stand to watch it, but when Sherlock finally gives in and starts whispering, it is utterly believable that he is broken. The interrogator leans in, and Sherlock tells a truth, and then another, layers them quickly and quietly. Sherlock draws the man in until he gets close enough that he can pick his pocket, and hide the key to his cuffs in his hand. 

Mycroft sits up in case he needs to intervene, but the interrogator - this plain, dull man with the bad tattoos - doesn’t even notice. Sherlock plays his part well; the man is truly stirred up, Sherlock’s words spinning around his dim little mind, making him angry and careless. 

Mycroft asks the man what Sherlock said, and he has the sense of duty to repeat it to him, but then storms out, ready to go kill the local coffin maker. 

Closing the door behind him, and leaving them alone. 

Mycroft takes a breath. He feels the solid thrill of this moment, _finally_ , and says, his voice deep and gravelly in Serbian, “So... my friend.” 

Sherlock doesn’t look up, although he knows that it’s him. Sherlock knew the moment that he walked in here, Mycroft does not doubt it. “Now it’s just _you_ , and _me_.” 

Mycroft gets up, his legs stiff from the cold and the unusual position. He walks up to Sherlock slowly, his footsteps echoing off the wet floor, and he is showing off, he’s aware - showing what he learned just for Sherlock, what he _did_. 

“You have no idea the trouble it took to find you.” 

Sherlock pulls against the chains as he steps closer. He’s swaying, shaking now, perhaps in relief that the torture has ended.

Mycroft places a gloved hand on Sherlock’s back, gently, and then grabs his hair the way that he has been wanting to since the moment he saw him, tangles his fingers in it. “Now, _listen to me_.” Mycroft breathes, and the unwashed odour of Sherlock hits him right in the face, stale and raw. “There’s an underground terrorist network active in London, and a massive attack is imminent.” 

Sherlock keeps his eyes closed while Mycroft whispers, mouth so close to Sherlock’s ear that his lips brush it. “Sorry... But the holiday is over.” Mycroft lets him go. “ _Brother, dear._ ” 

Sherlock breathes out shakily.

Well. “Back to Baker Street.” Time for Sherlock to play the part that he plays best, and to glide back into his own skin. “ _Sherlock Holmes._ ” 

Sherlock has not opened his eyes. Either he is beyond exhausted, or he is savouring this. 

The second, Mycroft suspects, and _oh yes_ , a small smile starts tugging on the corners of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock opens his eyes, and he slowly raises his head. He swallows, “Ni...” he needs to find his voice, raw from screaming, “Nice of you to drop by.”

Mycroft feels Sherlock’s gaze trailing over him like his hands would, leaving a simmering heat in their wake. 

_Oh, Sherlock._

Sherlock’s mouth pulls into a wider smile, now, aware of the reaction that this is having on him, “Brother _mine_.”

Mycroft lays his gloved hand on Sherlock’s shoulder again in reply, and quickly scans Sherlock’s back from closer by. There seems to be no serious bleeding. No broken bones. Despite the myriad of superficial injuries, Sherlock seems well-fed. Strong. 

Mycroft’s glove is catching some of Sherlock’s drying blood, so he removes them both, strips the soft leather off his hands, and folds them into his pocket. Then touches Sherlock’s neck with his bare hand, and follows the line of his collarbone to check for any damage, but there appears to be little. “You are positively _filthy_.” 

Sherlock breathes out a bitter laugh, but leans into his touch, so he continues.

Mycroft strokes Sherlock’s face, and his fingers catch the hairs of Sherlock’s unshaven cheek, the drag of his fingernails gathering dirt. He cards the back of his skull and matted hair, and pulls lightly. _It’s quite all right._

Sherlock shivers. “Mycroft…”

“Yes?” Mycroft asks, aware that his voice must betray some emotion, although he would be hard pressed to name it. Relief seems too plebeian a word, so does _love_ ; it is a desire that has grown roots, Sherlock, that vibrates through his entire self. “I can release you.”

Sherlock has the small key to his chains wrapped between his fingers, but he makes no move to use it, so Mycroft continues to run his fingers over Sherlock’s chest instead, to make certain that he is here, and that he is whole. Mycroft traces Sherlock’s sensitive sides, bruised ribs striped with blood and red welts, and he does not mean anything by it, not truly, but he is making Sherlock shudder. 

“Hm...” Sherlock’s gaze, along with the way that he unapologetically leans into him, are clear. _It has been so long._

Mycroft is undeniably tempted as well. But not here - surely. Not now. 

Mycroft moves his hands upwards instead, presses his thumbs up into the muscle beneath Sherlock’s armpits, relieves the pressure there to Sherlock’s wince, and says, “You are in considerable pain...” 

“Don’t care.” Sherlock’s voice is hoarse, but clear. He eyes him. 

Mycroft swallows. 

Saying that he does not want to would be useless.

Mycroft lets his hands travel over Sherlock’s chest, his stomach, and find the line of Sherlock’s waistband. He presses his fingers under the elastic of Sherlock’s pants, and Sherlock leans into his hands, clear in his want, so he pulls his pants down slowly, drags Sherlock’s trousers along with them over his knees and feet. _Greedy, so despicably greedy._

Sherlock steps out of them, and Mycroft sees the pale flesh of his hips, his muscular upper legs. The dark patch of hair between them, cock between his legs, somewhat filled out. 

Taking him in is like a rainfall after years of drought. 

Sherlock looks at him intently, takes in his reaction as if he is thirsting for it, as well. 

“Guards outside?” 

Mycroft slowly, giving Sherlock plenty of time to feel it – to object, if he wishes to, runs his hand down in between Sherlock’s legs. “Many.” He is not lying; there are least twenty more men in this building alone, all begging for a fight. Or for a piece of Sherlock. _Is this what you want from me?_

Mycroft wraps his hand around Sherlock’s cock finger by finger. He squeezes it, leans in, and breathes into Sherlock’s ear, slightly incredulous that he is even doing this, “So you might want to scream.” 

And Sherlock _groans_. His body responds, despite the pain that he must be feeling right now, he grows hard fast, and Mycroft feels some emotion, at that. 

He is very aware of the throbbing, heavy heat between his own legs. 

The closed, but not locked, door. 

The timeframe before someone will come in, and enquire about the prisoner. It won’t do if they see Sherlock being touched like this; Sherlock’s hips are moving along with Mycroft’s hand, chasing his touch. The chains rattle as he shifts his weight. 

Mycroft brings his hand to Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock licks the palm with a soft “Hm,” and then messily sucks his fingers, making Mycroft feel a small frisson of stunned delight. _You want this, still._

Mycroft brings his hand down and touches Sherlock again, wet now, sliding over his flesh. He moves his other hand downwards over Sherlock’s back, trails his fingertips to the globe of Sherlock’s arse, and then between his arse cheeks, aware that he could use spit there, too, and that Sherlock knows it. Mycroft will not do that, not here, but that does not stop him from leaning over Sherlock, and saying to his ear, “Would you like me to take you like this?” 

Sherlock’s erection jumps up, and Mycroft knows that he is right about the appeal of this moment for him. “All raw and…” Mycroft breathes into Sherlock’s ear, presses a finger there, and feels Sherlock tense, his arsehole spasm around it. “ _...unwashed?_ ” 

Sherlock does not reply, only moves into him more. Mycroft can smell Sherlock closely enough that he can nearly taste him, the acrid scent of neglect heavy in his mouth. 

Sherlock’s back must be throbbing, Mycroft thinks. His arms must be ropes of pain - he can feel Sherlock’s constant involuntary shuddering. His mouth must be dry; he is obviously dehydrated. His legs are weak, he keeps on swaying. And _still_ he is hard for him. 

Oh, it is the situation, surely, to never happen again, but still Mycroft can feel the overwhelming reality of it shake him. 

Two years. It has been _two years_ since he saw him last. His own erection twitches sorrowful in his pants, and he presses it to Sherlock’s hip. Through the layers of clothes and coat it does nothing to relieve the pressure, it only adds a dull throb of desire. Sherlock, probably not even aware that he is doing it, breathes out with a small whine, and then moves his hips along with him, stuck between his hands, between one pleasure and another. 

Mycroft glances at the door. How many minutes has it been? 

Sherlock breathes, and Mycroft leans over him, and after a second’s hesitation, leans down and bites the flesh of Sherlock’s shoulder, right on the aching muscle, _hard_ , knowing that it will hurt. 

Predictably, Sherlock bucks underneath him, “Ah!”.

Mycroft belatedly tastes blood, metallic and strange on his tongue. He presses his lips over the bite - undignified, raw, _bestial_ \- and sucks. Sherlock utters a stretched, “Aaaahhh,” and Mycroft can feel the discomfort knot in his throat at the idea of what he is _doing to him_. But it works, he pulls Sherlock off hard and fast, _so close_... and Sherlock comes in splashes over the floor, shaking uncontrollably.

Sherlock sags immediately after, and Mycroft does his best to support some of his weight. He takes the key from in between Sherlock’s opens one cuff, but when Sherlock’s arm falls free Sherlock sucks in a sharp, pained breath. 

Mycroft lowers Sherlock to sit on the cold, nasty ground, and only then undoes the other cuff, carefully, and Sherlock sinks down, naked. 

Sherlock’s eyes are glassy, and his breathing is shallow with pain. He must be feeling terrible, but still he smiles at him, lightly. “Hmm, good.” 

Mycroft gets to his knees beside him. He is feeling somewhat shaken himself from the effort of manoeuvring Sherlock’s weight to the ground, from seeing him like this, from the arousal that has been running though his body so deeply, he is sweating underneath his coat. 

He puts a hand on Sherlock’s hair, and brushes it from his forehead. Swipes his thumb over his cheekbone. Sherlock blinks his eyes at him, and Mycroft feels a wave of emotion enough to stop his breath. _How long it has been, brother mine._

Mycroft runs his fingers over Sherlock’s jaw line, his cheek… his lips. Sherlock opens his lips and licks his finger, sucks it, briefly, eyes full of intent.

The thought settles hot in his chest. 

Mycroft hesitantly undoes the lower buttons of his coat, then the one on his trousers, Sherlock’s gaze following his hands. He lowers the zip, pushes his shirttails out of the way, gets his hand in his pants, and his erection is freed. 

His heart is beating hard in his throat. This is insanity, he’s aware. _Cruel_ , even. 

Mycroft moves closer on his knees, and Sherlock turns towards him. He holds an arm under Sherlock’s neck, and then takes his own erection in his hand, and places it to Sherlock’s mouth. “Hm.” Sherlock’s lips are dry, and they stick to his cock, briefly. The tip just barely disappears when Sherlock takes it into his mouth, and pops out again, but it does not matter. 

Mycroft moves his hips, he pushes into Sherlock’s mouth more, and he can feel the texture of Sherlock’s tongue. The edge of his teeth. Hear his soft, muffled moan. 

Mycroft is curled over Sherlock, holding him, and knows the image that this must make; he can see it clearly in his mind’s eye: Sherlock, naked and bloody on the floor, like a _pietà_ , like an image from a Gothic church, divine suffering and blood. And him holding him close, and forcing him to _take_ … 

Mycroft feels an overwhelming, hot pinch of love for Sherlock’s knowing eyes, still on him. _Allowing_ him this, _wanting_ to see him do it. 

Mycroft moves his hand over himself, and leans so that the tip of his cock slides between Sherlock’s dry lips, pitifully close to orgasm from little stimulation at all. He can feel his stomach muscles contract, his body reaching the edge, _Sherlock!_

Mycroft with a deep, almost painful shudder, comes. Dribbling over Sherlock’s lips, into his mouth when Sherlock sucks. And then a trail on Sherlock’s cheek when he lets go and it slips away, down over his chin and chest. 

Mycroft gently lowers Sherlock’s head to the ground, and sits back. He looks at Sherlock, the come on Sherlock’s mouth, his glittering eyes, the _ravage_ of this moment, blood and grime, and allows himself to feel it, for just one breath. 

And then gets up, straightens his clothes, and ignores the mild shaking of his hands. Mycroft lowers his shoulders, and puts on a self-satisfied but dark expression. 

_You ruined him and you are proud of it._

He calls in a guard. 

Time to get out of here.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. (3 November 2013)

 

 

Sherlock sits down for a shave. 

He’s back in London, in Mycroft’s Diogenes Club office, newspaper in hand. The sound of Mycroft lazily flipping through files across from him, the smell of shaving cream heavy in his nostrils, and a razor to his throat. 

In all, it’s not very different from Serbia. 

Mycroft is looking over his achievements from the last two years. Or all of them condensed to a handful of files, anyway. 

“You _have_ been busy, haven’t you?” Sherlock can hear the smarmy smile in Mycroft’s voice without having to look at him. “Quite the busy little bee.” 

Sherlock took out an entire global network. He killed men. He put his body and mind and self on the line, and outplayed them. He _won_. He deserves a little praise. “Moriarty’s network. Took me two years to dismantle it.” 

“And you’re confident you have?” 

Obviously. “The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle.” _Deep, cold cellar._ Sherlock can still feel the shackles on his wrists, and he needs to focus for the feeling to disappear, for his body to stop remembering. 

Of course, that is also where Mycroft walked in and pretty much drooled over him being beaten, Sherlock remembers _that_ well enough. He can see the guilt practically dripping off Mycroft’s lips now, forming those careful little smiles, _so nice to have you back_ and _haven’t you been smart, little brother_. 

Good. 

Means that he can take some advantage back later. 

Sherlock lets the barber do his work. His hair is short again, he washed, and he feels aggressively clean. Positively _scrubbed smooth_. 

“Yes, you got yourself in deep there with,” Mycroft checks the file, “Baron Maupertuis? Quite a scheme.” 

He doesn’t know the half of it, of course, but Sherlock feels the thrum of his success sit lightly in his chest. He can even manage not to pay attention to the straight razor currently being dragged over his cheek. He’s fairly certain that his heart rate is lower, his body more capable right now with the memory of torture still fresh on his skin, than it would have been two years ago. He got _better_. 

“Anyway.” The sound of Mycroft closing the file. “You’re safe now.” 

He’s sounding altogether too pleased about that. Still, Sherlock can’t find it bothering him right now. “Hmm.” 

Mycroft is watching him being shaved, the cool drag of the razor over his skin. Sherlock is sure that that is the only reason why he offered to do it here. So that he could _watch_. Typical. 

He feels a distant flicker of lust. 

“Small thank you wouldn’t go amiss.” 

And there we are. Self-righteous, as always. “What for?” 

“For wading in. In case you’d forgotten, field work is not my natural _milieu_.” 

Ugh. Sherlock stills the barber, sits up, and instead of swallowing the wave of pain that causes, groans theatrically, _because you like to hear that so much_. “Wading in? You sat down, and watched me being beaten to a pulp.” 

Mycroft frowns, “I got you out.” 

“No, _I_ got me out.” Sherlock got that key, and they both know it. It’s not because he was briefly _distracted_ by Mycroft’s... It doesn’t mean that he was not in control for every second of that, “And you _enjoyed it_.” 

Sherlock can still taste the echo of Mycroft’s come on his lips, feel it sit smooth and bitter on his dried-out tongue. 

Mycroft leans forward onto his desk, trying to _make it all better_ , “Do you have any idea what it was like for me, Sherlock? Going _undercover_? Having to pretend that I...” 

Sherlock groans, he doesn’t need to know. He lies back down. It doesn’t matter. Done, now. 

And he did enjoy it more than a bit himself. He grins. 

Says, idly, “I didn’t know you spoke Serbian.” 

Mycroft shifts. “I didn’t. But the language has a Slavic root, frequent Turkish and German loanwords... Took me a couple of hours.” 

Must have been more than that, even Mycroft can’t speak that well without a couple of days, more likely at least a week of training. Sherlock glances at him. “Hm. You’re slipping.” 

Mycroft smiles, “Middle age, brother mine. Comes to us all.” 

The door opens, and Sherlock stills instantly. His muscles lock, _fight or flight_ , he can take the razor, turn around and… but it’s Anthea - Andrea - whatever she calls herself these days. 

Sherlock forces himself to breathe and to relax. _You’re getting a shave, don’t be stupid._

Still, his body is thrumming with tension as he keeps an eye on Anthea in the mirror, the easy conversation with Mycroft forgotten. Sherlock can’t quite suppress the instinct to either lie to her or to get to her, shake her for information. Information which she does not have, she’s not part of Moriarty’s network. It’s over, he’s done. But it doesn’t quite feel like it.

The barber finishes, and Sherlock is able to rise out of the chair looking perfectly composed. Anthea has a suit for him. Perfectly tailored, of course. _Neat._

Mycroft tilts his head and Anthea quickly and discreetly ushers the barber out, and closes the door behind her. Mycroft pays them all so very well to keep quiet. Normally Sherlock would make a quip about that, but he’s too relieved to see them go. 

He covers it up by taking his shirt off, ignoring the pull of his wounds. He undoes his shoes. 

Then looks over his shoulder, and says, purposefully, “I’ll be busy, after this.” 

Mycroft’s gaze is lingering on his back. “Yes, I imagine so.” 

He’s looking at his injuries, so Sherlock turns around, puts a hand on his trousers, and opens the button, slowly, just to see Mycroft’s eyes there, too. 

Mycroft swallows. 

_Subtle, really._ Sherlock steps out of his trousers, and then gets his thumbs under the line of his pants. He doesn’t need to take them off to change, but he pulls them down anyway. Reveals his cock for Mycroft’s eyes, and observes the way that he can practically see Mycroft’s heartbeat pick up, pupils widening. 

_Oh, he wants it._

Still, Mycroft doesn’t move, and he won’t until he asks him to. “You owe me.” 

Mycroft tilts his head. Admits softly, a flash of desire-guilt in his voice, “Perhaps.” 

Sherlock feels momentarily grand, like this. Naked, still covered in bruises and cuts, he’s strong, he’s brilliant, victorious, and Mycroft owes him something _good_. 

Mycroft stands slowly. He moves his chair back underneath the desk and straightens it, and then walks towards him. 

Mycroft reaches out a hand to touch him, kindly, probably, he so loves to be _nice_ , but Sherlock’s had sex with other people in the last two years. Some quick things, fast and hard - he’s gotten some more _experience_ , so he says, “On your knees.” He’s going to fuck Mycroft’s mouth until he drools and gags over it and it’ll feel _right_. 

Mycroft swallows dryly, but he does not question the command, and he does get down on his knees, in his suit, in his office, in the middle of the day. Seeing that, Sherlock’s not sure why he even told him. Why he didn’t just push him down and take it - Mycroft would let him. Mycroft would let him do _anything_. 

Mycroft moves forwards and Sherlock starts when he suddenly feels his mouth on him, warm and wet. As if it’s a surprise. 

Mycroft rolls his tongue around him, sucks gently. Then pulls off, and lightly runs his lips over it, eyes closing as he does it, breath ghosting over his wet skin. 

It’s making Sherlock feel uncomfortably warm, watching it. Full, almost. 

Mycroft’s hand moves up, and touches the inside of Sherlock’s legs. Runs it between his thighs, to cup his balls, and play with them. To touch his arse, which is sensitive and Mycroft knows it. 

It makes Sherlock move towards his mouth more, and he remembers the cellar, again. How after two years of running and fighting and scrambling to survive, he just _let go_. 

Conditioning, Sherlock thinks. Association, habit, familiarity. Just like this, Mycroft skilfully pulling him towards orgasm. And no, not now, Sherlock stops him, and pulls out, says, roughly, “Get up.” 

Mycroft doesn’t argue. He sits back, and gets up stiffly, and it makes Sherlock feel heady. Like a part he is playing. 

Mycroft’s obviously aroused, his trousers are tented. His lips are red, his face looks wet and patchy, and Sherlock could leave him like this. Make him go back to work, and watch him pull himself together into a veneer of civilisation. He would. 

Sherlock gets close, not close enough to kiss him, but enough to give the impression that he might, and sees Mycroft’s lips soften for him. _How predictable._ Sherlock moves his hand to Mycroft’s crotch, and squeezes, slowly, sees his mouth open, hears his little gasp for breath. _Always the same._ Sherlock leans in, and licks the skin of Mycroft’s neck. He can almost taste his dry swallow, his quiet, “Sherlock…” _Boring._ Sherlock stills his hand on Mycroft’s cock, lets it loosen, and then squeezes him again. 

He could make him come in his pants if he wanted. 

Sherlock lets go of Mycroft’s cock, and feels his hips stutter in his absence. He can do anything he wants to do. Anything, so why… He feels unsteady, somehow. Sherlock can feel the little impatient snap of Mycroft’s hips, and he steps away. Says, harshly, “Do it yourself.” 

Mycroft opens his trousers. Pulls himself out, closes his hand around his erection, and starts stroking hesitantly. He closes his eyes, and no, Sherlock feels a stab of annoyance. “Look at me.” 

Mycroft opens his eyes, his hand fast over his cock. And it still seems too good, he’s already leaning back a little, tensing, so, “Stop.”

Mycroft does, lets go of himself even though his cock is moving upwards on its own, already wet at the tip. Mycroft is breathing fast. Sherlock can see him shake. _You want me?_

Sherlock steps closer, and says to his ear, “You’re close.” 

Mycroft eyes him. “Yes.” 

Sherlock licks the side of his cheek, and tastes him. Mycroft sighs and his hips start moving, so Sherlock stills them, a hand on either side, and he can feel his cock move again. He bites his neck, a quick little press of teeth. 

Then steps back, and Sherlock can feel Mycroft’s whole body lean towards him, so he says, “Knees.” 

Mycroft does it, he kneels, fast. _So very willing._

“Finish it.” 

Mycroft holds his cock, and moves his hand, slow at first. He looks straight at him, then speeds up, and two strokes, three, and he makes a muffled sound. He comes, so _undignified_ , stripe after stripe onto the floor, over his knees, the edge of his suit. 

Sherlock feels distant, watching it, watching him come. It feels unreal. 

Sherlock gets closer, puts his fingers on the back of Mycroft’s head, and pulls him towards his cock. Mycroft takes him into his mouth unquestioningly, and Sherlock feels himself surrounded by the heat of it again, the great, sucking mess of tongue and teeth and hot mouth. 

He pulls him in more, until Mycroft’s face is pressed right to his groin, the tip of his nose to his pubes. _Please._

He’s not sure what he’s asking for. 

Mycroft moves his hands, and squeezes his arse. Mycroft sucks him, and Sherlock seems to waver on the edge of letting go, his legs shaking, for a long time. He looks at the wall. The desk. When he finally comes it’s unimpressive. 

He feels hazy, now. 

There’s a string of come still hanging from his cock when Mycroft pulls off, connecting them for a moment before snapping. Mycroft laps it up, and seeing it makes Sherlock feel another shudder of disillusion. _It can’t be real. He’s not real. This is not._

Mycroft is still breathing harder than usual when he gets up, and dabs his mouth with his handkerchief. He did like it - Sherlock can see it in his eyes. 

Doesn’t matter. Sherlock turns away, finds his pants again, then takes the new suit, and puts it on as well. His back still hurts - stinging and throbbing - as he changes clothes. He can hear Mycroft in the background cleaning up, his suit, the floor, too. He’s fastidious, doesn’t want to leave any evidence, although Anthea surely knows by now. _Dull._

Sherlock finishes buttoning his shirt, and looks in the mirror. His hair is too short. He seems oddly clean and it’s strange, so he purposely observes the way this new fabric clings to him instead. Sticks his hands under the line of his trousers. “What do you think of this shirt?”

Mycroft glances up in surprise. And then says, hesitantly, _not used to being asked, why did he ask?_ “...It suits you.” 

Sherlock has given it some thought, of course, how to come back. He has played the soundtrack of everyone’s reactions in his head - John’s, especially, the way he says ‘brilliant’ and ‘amazing.’ He has pictured the look of joy on John’s face when he realises that it was all a complicated trick - as soon as he can tell him what he did, John will look at him as if he’s a _god_. 

But still Sherlock feels empty, somehow. Not quite… there. But he’ll play the part, he needs to, be Sherlock Holmes again. “Where is it?” 

“What?”

Sherlock turns, _don’t be obtuse_ , “You know _what_.” 

Mycroft gets up, and brings him his coat. He handles it with care, and when Sherlock turns, he holds it open and helps him into it. It falls around him like a second skin. Like armour, like protection, like a well-used disguise. “Thank you.” 

Sherlock looks at Mycroft, and feels that sit on his chest, too. “ _Blud._ ” 

Sherlock leaves before Mycroft can respond, knowing that the acknowledgement will charm Mycroft, and that the term will annoy him, in equal parts. 

It’s the best he can do.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. (4 November 2013)

 

 

Mycroft had almost forgotten how self-congratulatory Sherlock can be. How arrogant, rude, and abrasive. 

Perhaps it is because Sherlock has had little company other than his own mind and criminals over the last two years, but it is rather obvious that it has both done his ego good and his general social skills a world of bad. He talks, brags, and grins as if he thinks that he is the best thing on earth. 

Mycroft is still feeling overwhelming relief to have Sherlock in front of him of course, safe and sound and wholly himself, so he can take some of the wild egotistical rambling, if need be. The sexual confidence, oozing off him. 

But still he feels rather drained by the time that Sherlock leaves his office. 

Mycroft follows him on CCTV that evening, and feels mainly sympathetic to John’s reaction. The way Sherlock walked into that restaurant… he deserved every fist in the face that he got. It is a well-deserved wake-up call as well, Mycroft thinks. Not everyone is quite as indulgent of Sherlock’s antics. 

Mycroft assumes that Sherlock will be licking his wounds and focusing on the case, so he is slightly surprised when he gets a message the following morning. “ _Come over? SH_ ” 

Mycroft can assume that it will, in fact, be about the terror attack. Or, knowing Sherlock, it might be about something else completely, but still he goes, naturally. 

Mycroft walks into Baker Street with a pleasant sense of déjà-vu. Mrs. Hudson greets him at the door, seemingly over the moon to have Sherlock back. Sherlock is sitting in his old chair. He has a bruised cheekbone and his nose is slightly swollen, but nothing major. 

Mycroft takes in his dressing gown, the predictable mess of Baker Street, a large collage on the living room wall as well, and tries not to find all of this touchingly familiar. “Making ourselves at home again, are we?”

“Hmm.” 

Sherlock tells him about his _markers_ , and despite seeing him only yesterday, Mycroft can feel his gaze want to settle over him, again and again. Sherlock has bulked up a little, filled out, and it is a good look for him. 

And of course there is reason for his self-congratulation. Sherlock has worked hard in the last two years, and it’s over now. Or at least he believes it to be. Which is not entirely true, there are complications, but Mycroft suppresses his anxiety over it. There is nothing he can do right now, and at least Sherlock is here. At least he can keep him close, now, and he fully intends to do so. 

Mycroft studies the wall in more detail as well. Ah, Moran. A bit obvious as a suspect, but still it is clever of Sherlock to see that much. Most do not have the faintest clue.

Mycroft turns towards Sherlock again, he wants to ask him about his current suspects, but Sherlock is digging out, oh god no, _a board game_. “Let’s play.”

Really. Mycroft sighs, and sits down across from him. “I don’t know why you always insist on these games, Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowns, slightly insulted, “It helps me think.” 

Yes, naturally. Mycroft has always known that Sherlock quite simply likes them, which is mainly why he accepts the tweezers, and sets to carefully dig plastic organs from a cardboard human. Utterly silly, of course. He says, again, “The terror alert has been raised to critical.” 

“Boring.” Sherlock digs out the wishbone. “Your move.” 

“We have solid information - an attack _is_ coming.” He has to press the importance of this to Sherlock. Mycroft wanted to call him back much sooner but this potential terrorist attack has proven to be the perfect time. 

Mycroft gets the anklebone. “Your move.” 

Sherlock - with some difficulty - removes the Adam’s apple. “Your move.”

Mycroft looks down, and tries to figure out which one will be easiest. “I’ve given the prime minister my personal assurance you’re on the case.”

“I am on the case. We’re both on the case, look at us right now.” 

Yes. Mycroft glances at him. _Playing like children._ He tries for the heart, but the game buzzes. “Oh, bugger!” He drops it. 

“Oopsie. Can’t handle a broken heart, how _very_ telling.” 

Oh, Sherlock, just… _don’t_. Mycroft feels both the friction of an old argument, _yes, I love you, how very weak of me_ , and a new sense of tension between them. Sherlock has changed; he is not the same, which means that they are not the same.

Sherlock opens his mouth, and – 

“Ooh-ooh!” Mrs. Hudson walks in, carrying a tea tray. 

Naturally. They can never have a single conversation in this place without either that woman or John interrupting. 

“I can’t believe it...” Mrs. Hudson puts her tea tray down. “I just can’t believe it, _him_ , sitting in his chair again.” 

Yes, _quite_. Mycroft suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, the way that woman fawns over Sherlock, no wonder that Sherlock wishes to live here with her, she’s everything Mummy never was. Caring, doting, ridiculously so. 

She turns towards him, “Oh, isn’t it wonderful, Mister Holmes?” 

Mycroft sighs. “I can barely contain myself.” 

Should he go back to work? There is nothing much to do here, no chance of anything other than spending some time with Sherlock. Which Mycroft admits he sorely longs for, but he has seen Sherlock every day now, so it might be time to give him some space. Mycroft is long used to dealing with Sherlock in limited bursts of exposure; it makes it more liveable for them both. 

And Sherlock, although he does not seem to be very inclined towards working right this second, is busy. Or should be, at least. Mycroft can imagine the problems an attack like this could cause - not for the unlucky victims but on a governmental level, the economic losses would be highly inadvisable. 

But Sherlock takes a breath, and instead of throwing him out - which Mycroft is fully expecting him to do - claps his hands, and says, “Let’s do deductions.”

Sherlock turns around, and Mycroft lets his eyes trace over Sherlock’s deep red dressing gown, and the way it catches the light. He is fully dressed underneath, so the reason for wearing it must have been mainly sentimental. It looks good on him. 

There is a hat lying next to the tea tray. “Client left this while I was out, what do you reckon?” 

Sherlock throws it, and Mycroft catches it more on instinct than any actual desire to play. He does not want to leave, but on the other hand he would quite like some time to process this barrage of emotion that comes along with interacting with Sherlock, and get back to him later. “I’m busy.” 

“Oh, go on.” Sherlock smiles, and walks up to him.

“No.” 

Sherlock comes close enough that he is nearly touching him, his body indecently angled towards his, and Mycroft feels very aware of that fact. He can feel a slight sense of sweat prickling in his neck. His whole body heats up when he has Sherlock across from him, he’d forgotten that. “No?” 

Mycroft looks Sherlock up and down, and feels the thrill of it sit hard beneath his chest. _There are other games we play, are there not?_ The smile around Sherlock’s lips seems to say the same. He reaches out, and…

Mrs. Hudson, _damn her_ , walks in, and Mycroft takes a discreet step back while Sherlock turns away. She comments, “Now don’t fight, boys!” while disappearing into the kitchen. 

Sherlock puts on a face, and asks her, “Mrs. Hudson... Leave us alone?”

“Oh,” she pokes her head out again, and smiles, “Yes, of course, you have a good chat, now.” 

Sherlock even has the audacity to wink at her, which makes her laugh. She does not suspect at all, naturally, the dim-witted woman thinks that they will drink a pleasant cup of tea and perhaps argue a bit, but still Mycroft feels a wave of irritation at Sherlock’s blatant insinuation. _Must you?_

Sherlock puts the hat to the side, walks past him, and Mycroft catches the faint flicker of doubt in his eyes. 

“Sherlock...” Mycroft frowns. 

He continues to rattle in the way that he is subtly different. Both from the man in his memories - which, Mycroft is loath to admit, might be tainted by sentiment - and from everything that he expects between them. 

Mycroft glances at the door. She really is gone, so he lays a hand on the edge of Sherlock’s dressing gown, and momentarily traces the thin fabric between his fingertips. _I care for you, Sherlock, please know that._

Sherlock smiles, again, just a little too hard. Just a bit out of sync. Sherlock eyes him, and moves towards the bedroom.

And Mycroft, _god help him_ , follows. 

Once inside, Sherlock leaves a trail of his clothes, revealing himself without a second thought. 

Redefining, Mycroft thinks - they are shaping the boundaries, re-shifting, aligning themselves as planets again, to move in an orbit around each other. One that is not too far that they do not feel each other’s pull, but not so close that they will disastrously collide. 

Of course, that last one has always been the problem. 

Mycroft locks the door. Someone as dim as Mrs. Hudson or John could be lied to easily; of course, there are many reasons to lock a bedroom door, but they will need to be quiet.

Sherlock steps out of his pants, throws them to the side, and looks at him expectantly.

But still Mycroft feels uncertain. What is it that he is searching for now? 

Sherlock reaches out, pulls him towards the bed, and Mycroft allows himself to be manoeuvred on top of it. Sherlock quickly opens his trousers for him, and Mycroft wants to protest, _we don’t have time for this_ , but of course he does not. Mycroft lies back while Sherlock, _oh_ , – leans down and bites his stomach, briefly. 

Sherlock’s lips are closing over his not-even-aroused-yet cock. 

Mycroft feels somewhat uncomfortable, lying back on these covers, in this room with the window a couple of paces further, traffic outside, Mrs. Hudson downstairs, but still he hardens under Sherlock’s tongue. An admission of sorts, but one that he has given so many times already that it barely matters. 

Sherlock is licking him impatiently, and Mycroft can feel the frissons of desire running from between his legs, from his spine, making him shiver under his wet warmth. 

Mycroft looks down and, risking the chance that Sherlock will push his hand away, weaves his fingers though Sherlock’s short curls, and then strokes his cheek. Sherlock closes his eyes, and sucks on. Sherlock inhales, right over his cock, takes him in deep enough that he can feel the edge of his throat, and Mycroft thinks - so very treacherously - _did you miss me?_

It cannot have been much, he knows that. Mycroft has no illusions about Sherlock’s feelings, he never had. But Sherlock’s mouth is a roaming thing, from his hip to his stomach, a nip of teeth, his nose traces over the hairs there. To his balls, a warm breath over them, then taking them into his mouth and rolling them with his tongue, sucking. It is enough to make him shudder in a long, full-body wave.

Then nipping at the tip of his cock again, letting it slide in deep, unpredictable and fast. 

Almost needy. 

Mycroft feels guilt lock hard in his throat at that thought. Guilt for Serbia and the hurt that came to him, for the myriad of tensions between them, the crackling and wear of old sores and slights, for the sheer baggage they stack between them every time that they are in the same room. For doing this. Again. 

Sherlock releases him, and then licks a long stripe over his thigh. Sherlock is hard as well, Mycroft can see it clearly, and he wants nothing more than to take Sherlock in his mouth, too. To make him feel in some way loved, in any way that he can. Mycroft moves to sit up, but Sherlock pushes him down. “No.” 

Fine. Mycroft lies back, and simply looks at him then, allows Sherlock to have his body for now, if he finds joy in it. 

Sherlock lingers over the head of his cock, swipes his tongue over it. Then moves lower again, sucks his balls in, and Mycroft feels his whole body tighten at the sensation, and sucks in a breath. 

Two years. 

Sherlock moves to his cock again with wide swipes of his tongue, sucks it in, and Mycroft looks at him, unfocused, his thighs wet with spit and trembling, utterly lost to the sensation. So many memories and fantasies, so much time. 

Mycroft sees Sherlock’s dark head between his legs, and wants to pull him in and kiss him endlessly. But that most likely will not be welcome, so instead he hopes that his body is saying it. That his eyes are. 

Sherlock does meet his gaze, but just smiles weakly, and maybe he recognises only the desperation of it, the longing, nothing more. 

Sherlock licks a fast, wet trail with his tongue from under his belly button all the way to the tip of his cock, and Mycroft closes his eyes. Tries to remember this for later, the sensation of it, and at the same time tries to swallow away the desire to hold him instead.

Sherlock is making wet, sloppy sounds as he takes him in and out of his mouth and Mycroft can feel the urge grow. Sherlock’s hand plays with his balls, drawn now, and his mouth is sucking eagerly, a touch too hard, it nearly hurts. 

And suddenly he can’t hold it back. Mycroft looks down and says, “ _Sherlock…_ ” Sherlock glances up in a quick move, his eyes shining with a near-victory, and he goes faster, pulls him on more and more. Until it cascades and Mycroft can feel himself coming, helpless, his body wringing itself dry, into his brother’s mouth. 

Mycroft does not watch Sherlock, instead takes a second to re-centre himself, very well aware of what soft and aching thing is on his face now. 

He does not need to pull Sherlock up. He comes on his own, confidently crawls - naked - over him. 

Mycroft wants to at least give him that pleasure back, but Sherlock moves up high over his chest, to his neck, and sits down with his legs on either side of his shoulders. He pushes his erection forward in a clear demand, so Mycroft obediently opens his lips. 

Sherlock, voice sounding distant, or perhaps it is because the rush of orgasm is still ringing in Mycroft’s ears - he can feel its sweet echo in every muscle of his body - says, “This is how you did it.” 

Mycroft tastes the smooth, salty head of Sherlock’s cock, runs his tongue over it, and then realises what Sherlock’s saying. He glances up, tries to see Sherlock’s face and understand what he means. Sherlock speaks dispassionately, merely stating a fact, “In Serbia.”

Mycroft raises his hands, touches Sherlock’s legs, and wants to reassure him, _whatever you want_ , but Sherlock pushes them away. “No.” 

Sherlock cannot press deeply into his mouth because the angle is wrong, so Mycroft tries to shift his head then, to elongate his neck so he can take him in better. But Sherlock stills him with a hand on either side of his face, and keeps him right there. 

Sherlock moves up on his knees, and pushes himself in and out between his lips. It makes Mycroft’s mouth feel used, numb, and Mycroft is not sure if Sherlock intends him to recreate something like what Sherlock did in the cellar or if it is only the idea, so he does suck for him. 

He raises his hands to lie over Sherlock’s around his face, and tangles their fingers. Sherlock moves in small, harsh thrusts, and he is getting off on this, Mycroft thinks, with a feeling of disbelief. He has not done anything but lie here, _nothing_ but let Sherlock reflect his desire onto him. 

Sherlock stutters, breathes the little breaths that mean he is close, and Mycroft starts to taste him sharply, salty and thick on his tongue. 

Mycroft intends to take him all the way into his mouth, but Sherlock pulls out instead. He wanks himself, and Mycroft catches Sherlock’s eye. He does not look away, and it does not take long before he comes, messily, in hot spurts all over his lips and face. Oh, Sherlock will assume it’s humiliating, but Mycroft only wants to see the light in Sherlock’s eyes. To smell him and feel the slick decadence of his come on his skin, and know that it was spilled for him to see. 

Sherlock puts his cock to his lips once more but not for him to suck it in, just uses it to spread his come around, a briefly fascinated look on his face. Mycroft licks it anyway, generously. Betraying that he liked this, because Sherlock smiles smugly for a moment, and then moves off from over him to the side of the bed. His weight dips the mattress. 

Mycroft can feel the sweaty heat of where Sherlock’s thighs were pressed into him slowly dissipate. His face feels unpleasantly tacky and his lips raw, he must look _appalling_. He takes his handkerchief and tries to clean off, but he definitely needs to wash. 

He can feel Sherlock’s fingers in his hand as he takes the handkerchief from him. Mycroft glances at Sherlock, and watches him use it on himself. Mycroft feels some emotion warring in his stomach, but Sherlock seems fine. 

So he does not regret it. 

Mycroft might want to, but in truth, he rarely does. 

Mycroft dresses, and then spends some time in front of Sherlock’s bathroom mirror making absolutely certain that he looks respectable. 

Mummy is coming tomorrow, officially to celebrate that Sherlock is back but in reality she just wants to have a little plebeian London weekend. The idea of it is already immensely annoying. There is the terror plot, and the CIA acting up again, he does not have time for any more of this. He sighs. For any more distractions. 

Mycroft considers Sherlock’s touches. The unsettledness still hanging around him. He should not come back for a while. Three times in a week is too much, this is _too much_ , he cannot do it, and if there is anything that he has learned throughout the years it is that they need distance from one another. 

By the time that Mycroft is done, Sherlock is dressed, too. He seems quiet. Perhaps already thinking of the case, but Mycroft does walk up to him once more. 

_Are you feeling quite all right?_ No, that is a difficult question, especially because Mycroft assumes that the answer is no, for both of them. _I will see you soon?_ No, also. 

“Let me know when you have results.” 

Sherlock nods, and Mycroft leaves.

 

 

 

 

 


	4. (27 February 2014)

 

 

Sherlock is on the sofa. It’s a sunny afternoon, cold outside but the winter sun falling through the windows is heating his skin into neat little squares. 

He still feels damp. 

He is right out of the shower, and even though he has towelled his hair dry there are some drops rolling down his neck, and his dressing gown sticks to his skin. 

He wiggles his toes. Lies there, and listens for the sound of the downstairs door. He has left it unlocked. 

Mrs. Hudson went out to visit her sister, left last night, and she will be gone until the day after tomorrow. John is at a GP’s conference in Bristol, and he has taken Mary. The two of them will be laughing over a cheap seafood buffet in a mediocre hotel right now. _Having mediocre sex._

They’re getting married in May. 

Of course, the divorce rate is optimistically high in this country, and John is hardly the monogamous type - he’ll regret it in a year or less, Sherlock thinks. And then John will come back. He will, he won’t be able to stay away from the adrenalin, the thrill of being around Sherlock Holmes. 

A sound. The door, carefully being closed. 

Sherlock spreads out a little more on the sofa, and makes certain to appear utterly relaxed. 

The stairs, gently creaking under expensive loafers. Then the upstairs door, there is not a knock, just the sound of it opening. Sherlock glances up just in time to see Mycroft’s face appear. His quick sweep of eyes over him, lingering briefly on the flash of bare leg under his dressing gown before he looks away. 

It’s been months. 

“Your landlady is on holiday.” 

The absence of tea, and recent cooking smells, her coat is no longer in the hallway, her door is locked, and there are the vague indents of a small suitcase being dragged through the hallway. “Obviously.” 

Mycroft looks around, and observes the general state of disarray. “And John is at a conference, together with his _bride-to-be_.” He sounds irritated enough about that that Sherlock eyes him, but he gives nothing away.

Sherlock moves, resulting in his dressing gown being dragged up a little more. Also making it rather obvious that he is not wearing anything underneath. 

Mycroft’s eyes do travel over him, but settle on his face, annoyingly. “You are well?” 

Sherlock feels a hint of irritation. What does it matter if he’s _well_. 

He scans Mycroft in turn, and sees half a dozen details - he has not slept well, he was up before six, he skipped breakfast, and… “Cake for lunch, Mycroft?” _What would Mummy say?_ Sometimes it’s like he’s twelve again and eating from the biscuit tin on the sly. 

Mycroft curls his lip. “Carrot cake with a sugar free icing, and I see nothing wrong with that, in moderation.” 

Sherlock plays with the belt of his dressing gown, now barely keeping his thighs covered. He lazily stretches his arms over his head, and the fabric pulls up even more. He can feel himself fill out under the whisper-thin kiss of the fabric.

Mycroft is following the curve of his body with his eyes. 

Sherlock undoes the tie, and lets his dressing gown fall open. The sudden brush of air together with Mycroft’s eyes, betraying a shade of heat now, feel amazing. He feels seen. _Whole._

Mycroft coughs. “Feeling excitable, are we?” 

He looks good, Sherlock knows, so he puts a hand over himself, and traces the line of his cock. He closes his eyes half-way, and makes sure that it looks utterly pleasurable, what he’s doing. He can feel Mycroft’s eyes on him like a blaze. 

Can hear his restless shuffle. 

_Oh, he wants it._

Sherlock is not going to wait for him to admit it, so he says, “In my room.” _Don’t pretend that you don’t know._

Mycroft tilts his head, and yes, disappears to Sherlock’s bedroom.

Sherlock stops stroking himself, just lies there, and waits. Baker Street is quiet enough that he can hear every sound Mycroft makes. Every car passing by outside. The room seems pressingly dull, nothing of interest, nothing good here. _Nothing._ Sherlock stares at the ceiling. 

Mycroft comes back with the small tube of lube and a condom, and Sherlock bends his legs so that he can sit down, his weight a sudden dip on the sofa. But Mycroft, instead of using the lube, puts a hand on his chest and inspects his skin. It’s warm. “You are all healed now?” 

Probably. There are no bruises anymore, Sherlock noticed when he looked in the mirror after his shower - they’ve all faded and disappeared. He doesn’t know when exactly that happened. 

Mycroft leans down over him, kisses very lightly on his nipple, and Sherlock feels the curious fluttering arousal of it. Mycroft licks it, and then sucks. Sherlock closes his eyes. 

He can hear him open the cap of the lube. Feel Mycroft’s hand reach between his legs. Sherlock lets them fall open. 

Mycroft takes it slow, just the tip of his finger pressing between his buttocks. He breathes, “Shhh,” soft enough that Sherlock is not quite meant to hear it - Mycroft is talking to his body, not him. Sherlock can see that, the thought that he is just a thing, now. Just impulses and reflexes, muscle strength and ache. Desire to be roused, maintained, and sated. It’s easy. _Use me so I forget._

Sherlock shifts his knees, so he opens up a little more, and Mycroft gets the message. He uses two fingers, and when he hooks his fingers and reaches his prostate Sherlock shivers. 

Sherlock lets himself drift on it. He can hear the wet sounds of Mycroft’s fingers moving. Mycroft’s slightly uneven breaths. The rustling of his clothes against the leather sofa. 

His erection is throbbing, angling for a touch, but Mycroft ignores it. 

They don’t have to be quiet. There is no one in the building, Sherlock’s sure of it. So with the next press of fingers against his prostate, Sherlock makes a breathy sound, and then with the next, a small “Oh!” that he knows will get him something in response. 

Sherlock’s right. Mycroft leans over him again, the pressure of his clothed body over his skin pleasurable, and bites his nipple, a small, sharp thrill of pain, and then sucks it. Sherlock moves up a bit in a silent plea, but Mycroft ignores it in favour of licking his other nipple, so carefully. Mycroft’s been lingering, working him open slow and he wants it _now_. Sherlock opens his eyes.

Mycroft’s watching him closely - fixing him in his mind, no doubt. 

“Hurry up.” 

Mycroft leans back, turns his fingers again, and finds another wave of sweet-good inside of him. “No.” 

Sherlock is reminded of Serbia. Of feeling Mycroft’s hands on him, making him want it. Need blurred together with throbbing pain, red behind his eyelids. Mycroft whispered that he’d take him then. Sherlock knew that it was a lie, but he wanted him to, to force him open. Sherlock thrusts his hips upwards, “Do it.” 

Mycroft adds a third finger, which stretches him more. Sherlock can feel the edges of Mycroft’s fingers, the knuckles, the hardness of them, sliding in and out. Driving him high with a sweet, used feeling. He moves into it, he can’t quite help himself. “ _Mycroft._ ”

“Hmm,” Mycroft’s eyes are glossy, his voice indulgent. He moves his hand, turning his fingers somewhat, and it burns and stretches, it makes him _feel_. 

Sherlock’s breath is hitching in his chest. “ _Now._ ” 

Mycroft licks his lips. He’s breathing fast, too, by now. Wanting it. He’s hard for him, Sherlock does not doubt it. Mycroft slowly pulls his fingers out, and smiles briefly. “Patience.” 

Mycroft adds more lube, but not on his cock. He makes his hand drip with it, and Sherlock clenches in advance, feels the ache before he even pushes in with four long fingers. And that is _unreasonable_ , that is… Sherlock throws his head backwards, his back sticking wet to his dressing gown, and breathes out shakily. Mycroft gets inside enough to stretch him all the way up, to put pressure on his prostate and Sherlock lets out a long moan. That is _great_. 

Mycroft’s hand makes a decadently slick, sopping sound going in, and he can feel the tense pressure of it throughout his body. He rocks on it, he needs it. Sherlock opens his eyes with difficulty, and demands, voice low with it, “Fuck me. Now.” 

Mycroft’s looking delightfully on edge, too. He slowly pushes his hand in deeper, _savouring it_ , making Sherlock shudder in a bright spark of feeling... and then pulls out. 

Sherlock’s body wants to keep him in, despicably longs for it, even when he’s gone. 

Mycroft undoes his trousers while balancing awkwardly on the sofa, his movements slightly uneven, betraying that he’s eager, too. Mycroft takes the condom, puts it on, then gets close enough for the head of his cock to line up between Sherlock’s arse cheeks. Sherlock opens his legs, moves down, and tries to get him there, _now_. Mycroft puts a hand on his side - he wants to go slow, he always does - but Sherlock doesn’t care. “Come _on_!” 

He tilts himself towards him until Mycroft breaches him, and takes him one long, endless push. _Yes, like that, fill me._ Sherlock groans low in his throat. _Perfect._

Mycroft settles himself over him, his eyes dark, some sweat pearling on his forehead and starts moving, finally. Sherlock gets pushed up over the fabric of his dressing gown on his back and the sofa each time Mycroft’s hips meet his, his whole body sliding up, up, up. 

Mycroft’s hips meet his in fleshy smacks, and Sherlock moves into it and meets him just as hard. He feels stretched around him, his senses sparking with it, overflowing with heat. This is _glorious_ , and Mycroft is looking at him as if he’d forgotten, too, how good this is, a breathless shock on his face. 

Mycroft wants to kiss him, Sherlock can see it in the way his eyes to drift towards his lips. He could. Sherlock could pull him down and lick into his mouth, make him shudder with emotion in his arms. 

Instead he says, “Move.”

Mycroft, in the middle of a thrust, does, pulls out, and Sherlock rolls from under him. His legs feel strangely unsteady as he stands. His arse empty, unfilled. He shrugs his dressing gown off, and throws it to the ground. His cock bumps up against his stomach as he moves. 

Sherlock looks at Mycroft, trousers around his knees, showing his pale upper legs and condom-wrapped erection, and feels a flash of… something. Annoyance. Arousal. Sherlock crawls on the sofa on his knees, and spreads his legs. _Do it._

Mycroft breathes in shakily, and puts a warm hand on his hip, runs his thumb over the skin there. Mycroft gets on his knees as well with a rustle and dip in the sofa, the head of his cock briefly trailing wet and slick over his arse, and then he pushes in. It feels deeper, somehow, like this, as if he’s going all the way to his _teeth_. Sherlock groans, “Yes.” 

Sherlock can’t see Mycroft anymore; instead he has him behind him, pushing him into that long stretch until they’re as close as can be. Mycroft pulls out, and then a long, deep push in, and Sherlock moves into it greedily. “Yes!”

Sherlock glances at the door. Mycroft holds his hips tightly and makes short thrusts right over his prostate, reminding him of what he has, what he can do and Sherlock feels long shivers of pleasure. It’s making him pant, unable to catch his breath fully. _Don’t think of that._

Mycroft reaches a hand around, starts stroking him, too, makes it feel hot and grinding. Sherlock feels himself open for _more_ , his cock moves towards Mycroft’s hand, his legs tremble. Mycroft angles it right where he knows that he wants it, goes deep, and Sherlock cries out on purpose, “Aaah!” 

In response Mycroft thrusts in hard and near-painful, it curls Sherlock’s toes, makes him feel tight and used. He’s being fucked, being taken apart, and he reaches the edge, “M… aaah!” Mycroft’s thrusts make it last for long, blinding seconds. 

Sherlock comes down, spent, but he can barely breathe because Mycroft’s hips are slapping into his arse, moving him forward enough that he has to push back on his arms to stay upright with every thrust. It only takes a couple more, and then Sherlock feels his rhythm stutter, hears his muffled sigh, and knows that he’s coming inside of him. 

Mycroft moves a couple of times more, slower now, dragging out the feeling, and then stops. Both their breaths are audible, mingling in the silence. He runs a hand over his back.

Mycroft pulls out, and it burns, the slick plop of the condom, Sherlock feels acutely empty for a second. Alone, already. 

He lets himself fall onto the sofa. 

Mycroft pulls the condom off, and sits down as well, closes his eyes, and leans back against the cushions. Sherlock can still feel the motion of it moving through his body, his leg muscles working, his arse spasming. He glances at Mycroft and observes the exhaustion. He looks flushed, _undone_. 

Sherlock stretches his legs so that his feet press against Mycroft’s leg. Mycroft’s eyes flutter open, and his lips pull into a hesitant smile. 

Sherlock looks away, but leaves his feet. _Please._

Mycroft cups a foot for him, briefly squeezes the arch... and then gets up. 

Mycroft straightens his clothes, meticulously. He walks to the kitchen, discards the condom, washes in the bathroom, gets himself _together again_. Eventually he leaves with a soft, “Sherlock,” but Sherlock isn’t looking at him anymore. 

Sherlock lies on the sofa, naked. He lets the lube sit between his arse cheeks, slippery, aching. 

His body grows cold, and he shivers in the air.

 

 

 

 

 


	5. (18 May 2014)

 

 

Mycroft is invited to the wedding, but he does not go. 

There are many reasons, practical and otherwise, why he would not want to be at that event, and even when Sherlock calls and asks him to attend, he has to refuse. 

But Mycroft does think of him, throughout the day. 

Sherlock, stuck between those people. Sherlock, giving his speech. Sherlock, being John’s best man. John is choosing normality instead of everything that Sherlock offers him - he is choosing a wife over the battlefield, and Mycroft can imagine the pain of it for Sherlock. The sadness. 

So no, Mycroft does not go to the wedding. 

But he _is_ waiting at a discreet distance from the exit in time to see Sherlock walk out. 

Mycroft timed it so that he arrived after Sherlock has played them his waltz. He thought that to be the earliest moment that Sherlock might leave, so he has not been waiting long at all, standing in the spring night. He is breathing in the just-out-of-London air. He can hear the sounds of a lone cricket, and some birds rustling in the trees. The distant tones of music from the wedding venue, dampened to a hum of beats and a scattering of indiscernible voices that grows louder, then dampened again, as a door opens. 

Mycroft turns towards the entrance. Slowly enough that he can see Sherlock walk up, but not so fast that it appears as if Sherlock needs to confront him. He is here if Sherlock needs him, and that is all. 

Sherlock’s face is lined, his mouth downturned in sorrow. Even as he sees him, he is slow to pull himself together, showing his weariness quite clearly. 

Mycroft wants to reach out to him. To touch him, and comfort him. He finds the packet of cigarettes and the lighter in his pocket, and wordlessly offers those to him instead. 

Sherlock takes one, and lights it with a soft crackle. Mycroft puts a cigarette between his own lips as well. The hint of dry paper, the flash of warmth from the lighter, and the inhale of smoke deep into his throat is a meagre, but familiar comfort. 

Sherlock is the only reason that Mycroft still smokes. 

Perhaps because he feels that some trace of their sin deserves to be inhaled. Some acrid sense that remains whenever he thinks of Sherlock, some blackness held deep inside, meant to decay his self unseen. 

Perhaps it is because it has always been something that they shared, and he cannot say goodbye to it. 

Sherlock exhales, the smoke dissipating slowly. 

It is a beautiful night. The air is mild between them. Some distant flickers of stars are visible between shifting clouds, much more obvious here than in central London. The music is still going in the distance, and as the door opens again and lets out a gust of sound and celebration, Sherlock’s shoulders turn inwards. 

He does not want to stay here. 

Mycroft offers, “Back to London?” careful for it not to appear gentle, for his tone not to reveal compassion, because if it does Sherlock will fight it. 

Sherlock does not reply, but throws his cigarette to the ground and crushes it beneath his foot. Then walks off to the car. 

Mycroft follows him, feeling a small, tentative sense of relief. If he can take Sherlock home, if he can have him near for just some of it, perhaps he can help… Mycroft knows that he is telling himself a lie if he were to believe that. There is nothing he can do to lift Sherlock’s mood, nothing he can offer other than what Sherlock already knows he can demand of him any time he pleases. 

Yet Sherlock steps into the car. 

Sherlock’s face spells out clearly that he does not wish to talk, so Mycroft does not try. He takes his phone, and arranges some meetings for tomorrow in-between checking on Sherlock occasionally from the corner of his eye. Then reads up on the news, and world-wide politics. 

It is a long drive. The late hour means there is not too much traffic, but still Mycroft can feel his eyes burning with fatigue and his body aching mildly from sitting still by the time that they are in central London again. 

Mycroft did not tell the driver to go to Baker Street, so he is taking them to his home. Sherlock either does not realise, or care, because he says nothing. 

When they arrive, Mycroft gives quick instruction that he will not need the car until tomorrow, and Sherlock follows him inside. 

Perhaps it should be inevitable what they are about to do, but yet it is not. Sherlock tends to be clear in his need, because that is what Mycroft has always expected of him. But tonight... 

Perhaps just companionship, Mycroft thinks. 

It does not need to be anything more. 

When they step inside he intends to offer Sherlock a drink, but Sherlock walks on and goes upstairs without an invitation. So Mycroft follows him in the half-dark, up the stairs, and into his own bedroom. 

Sherlock, hurriedly now, as if he is angry at the mere restrictive nature of it, undoes his coat, scarf, and the jacket of his well-cut suit underneath. He struggles with his bowtie, gives it a harsh pull, and Mycroft can see himself in his mind’s eye going forward, stilling Sherlock’s fingers, and undoing it for him. Undressing him, tenderly. Kissing every patch of skin revealed. 

Instead, he turns away. 

Mycroft can hear Sherlock behind him, the rustle of fabric as he undresses, and the dull dual thuds of his Oxfords hitting the carpet. 

Mycroft steps out of his own clothes, discards the many layers of himself with simple movements - rows of buttons undone between his fingers, the knot of a tie loosened, shoe laces untangled. He bares himself, and he is willing to wear something else, to hide himself again, but by the time that Mycroft turns around Sherlock is standing by the window, looking out over the street. Naked. 

The room is dark, and he appears a faded orange in the city light. 

There are times in the past where Mycroft would have scolded Sherlock for exposing himself somewhere where he might be seen. There are times when Sherlock would have touched himself in front of a window in reply, always pushing him. Punishing him, for his desire. 

Today, Mycroft walks towards Sherlock. He reaches out and feels a near-frisson of fear before he touches Sherlock’s skin, half-expects him to pull away. But he does not. So Mycroft stands beside him and looks outside as well, at the familiar London street below. 

Sherlock moves closer so that his side presses against Mycroft’s. It is the faintest of requests, but Mycroft runs his hand over Sherlock’s shoulders in what he hopes is comfort, his fingers finding the fine little hairs, lines and scars like well-read Braille. 

There’s a quick, small shadow outside on the road - either a cat or a fox - darting across, and then disappearing again. Other than that, it is quiet. 

Sherlock pulls away. He walks over to the bed, his backside a sinuous play of light and shadow that Mycroft cannot help but follow across the room, and gets under the covers, as if he does this often, sleep in Mycroft’s bed. As if this is what they are. 

They have been at times, and Mycroft remembers each and every one of those nights. Rarely, though, have they managed to put everything else aside. 

Love is not joy, Mycroft has found. It is not a benefit, or an at all desirable state. It is nothing but pain. 

Perhaps the both of them are too different to ever completely understand one another. 

Perhaps they are too similar.

Mycroft gets into his bed as well, faintly aware that Sherlock has left him the side where he usually sleeps, that Sherlock is - consciously or not - adding himself to his bed instead of displacing him. 

That every move is a profession of either love or hate between them, attraction or repulsion, often both within the same breath. 

Mycroft carefully settles himself behind Sherlock. The curves of Sherlock’s arse, of his spine and shoulders are all near him, skin barely touching his in some spaces, not at all in others. Sherlock’s hair tickles his nose. 

Mycroft is conscious of his own breathing, the moments where his chest connects with the skin of Sherlock’s back for a brief pressing moment, and then retreats again. 

Out of all the things that they have between them... 

When they move together in lust, it is playing with fire. Burning bright and intense until there is nothing left but soot and ashes. But this, holding one another in the dark, it is so much slower. Like a long simmering. Like an ember of coal held in the palm of his hand, hardly painful at all at first until it becomes an unreasonable ache. 

Sherlock finds his hand, slowly tangles their fingers, and then pulls it so Mycroft’s arm moves to lie around him. Sherlock’s chest is beneath his fingers, the faint tickle of hairs, the rise and fall of his every breath. Mycroft imagines his heart underneath. 

Mycroft shifts his face so his forehead presses into Sherlock’s hair, and his lips meet Sherlock’s bare shoulder. _There are no words for what I feel for you._

Sherlock takes a breath, and says, a quiet rumble in the dark, “I made a vow.” 

“I know.” 

Mycroft is close enough that he can clearly feel the tensing in Sherlock’s body as he says, “To be there for the three of them.” 

Three? Why would... Ah, naturally. Pregnant. 

Mary is pregnant. 

Mycroft considers it quickly, her, the child - Sherlock might grow to love it. He is likely to, so that means even more attachment, more risk, always infinitely more risk when there is emotion. Vulnerability. 

Mycroft had assumed that John would get over the loss if Mary ever had to be sacrificed, and that Sherlock will be quite happy to have John back as well, but a child complicates things. Mycroft can feel the weight of it adding to everything else. It’s familiar, by now. 

The sickening crush of his own mistakes. 

He will not sleep tonight. Instead he will spend another series of hours thinking this over, seeing the large web of cause and effect that has brought them here, and consider how to keep Sherlock safe above all else. 

Sherlock moves, the shifting of the bed and his various limbs, and turns around to look at him. 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow; he cannot see Sherlock well in this light. “Yes?” 

Sherlock touches him near the side of his face. Just a touch of his fingers, but his meaning seems clear, Sherlock leans in, and briefly kisses his cheek. Meets him again, a faint whisper of breath over his neck, then the press of his lips. And again, a light kiss to his shoulder.

It’s so gentle that Mycroft is reminded of the first times they ever did this. How deeply, utterly terrifying the feeling that Sherlock was shaking apart within him felt then. Now he feels the play of Sherlock’s touch as small shocks throughout his body, but it is no less intense. Mycroft has continued to desire him for the last twenty years, at times barely relevant, at times unbearably so. He has never stopped. 

Sherlock presses a kiss to the side of his mouth. Lingers there. And Mycroft knows that he has been a stand-in for many things in Sherlock’s life. That he has been a parent to Sherlock, a friend, a teacher, oftentimes an enemy. But out of all those roles, this one tonight makes him feel anger, brief and sharp. _Who are you kissing, Sherlock?_

Sherlock must be able to feel some his annoyance, because he moves, with a quick shift of his weight, to lie on top of him. Mycroft breathes out abruptly under the sudden assault, but when Sherlock leans in and kisses him again with a soft stutter of lips, Mycroft lets him. 

Of course he does. 

Sherlock’s hands settle over his shoulders, and Mycroft tangles his hand into Sherlock’s hair and holds him close as if it is the only time, the last time, and it might be. 

Mycroft kisses him on his mouth, his neck, his fingers, his nipples, presses lips to his skin, and Mycroft’s own arousal does not seem to exist, only the sweaty, radiant heat that they are generating between them, only the sheer _ache_. 

Sherlock’s skin is sweat slick against him, and Mycroft shivers. Sherlock’s hands are running over his body wildly. Sherlock’s fingers are grabbing him, nails biting into his arms. Sherlock seems to want to disappear underneath his skin, and Mycroft understands, every bit of him understands. _Sherlock, I know._

Tangled as they are with covers still half-over them, it is nothing but heat, but Mycroft can feel himself break out in rushes of goose bumps at the feeling of him. Sherlock is panting moist, rushed breaths next to his mouth, and he groans when Mycroft finds the globe of his arse and squeezes. 

Sherlock is rubbing his erection hot and hard over his stomach, grinding himself onto him, and Mycroft remembers when Sherlock could come like this - when the friction of his flesh alone was enough, burning a simmering trail of desire between them in the dark. He longs for it suddenly, deeply. 

Sherlock moves up, sits on his knees over him, and Mycroft wraps his hand around Sherlock’s erection. He jerks his hand around him, his knuckles running into Sherlock’s stomach, and Sherlock thrusts into it. Then he groans and lowers himself down again over him, and uses the friction of his skin as well. Mycroft’s hand is being crushed between them but he does not care, he feels the sweet pulse and sudden slick heat of Sherlock spilling over him and realises that he is the one breathing so raggedly, that is sounding so undone. 

Sherlock trails his fingers in the release that he splattered, the touch and edge of nails enough to make Mycroft twitch, and wraps a hand around him, wet with his come. 

Mycroft can smell it, deep and acrid between them, and Sherlock’s hand slides easily as he jerks him with small pulls, his breath still coming fast and desperate even though he has finished. That alone would be enough to end him, but Sherlock leans in again and meets his lips in an unexpected, rough kiss. And Mycroft helplessly feels it drag him into pleasure, and he comes with Sherlock’s hand, his mouth, his body all over him, shudders into his warmth. 

Sherlock runs his hand over him a couple of times more, almost in reminiscence, before he lets go. He wipes his hand on the sheets, and kicks them off completely. 

Mycroft feels clammy and the air is heavy with sex, but Sherlock is still close to him, his side pressed to him, so he does not move even as they both cool down. Mycroft feels moulded to his touch, anchored there. He closes his eyes and tries to relish it. It’s so rare for them to lie like this, but at the same time a bone-deep tiredness settles over him. He can feel his lips pulsing, swollen and kiss-slicked.

He will not sleep like this, and neither will Sherlock. Mycroft is aware that he should not speak, either. 

That silence is the best they can do for one another.

 

 

 

 

 


	6. (10 September 2014)

 

 

Sherlock feels like a live wire. 

He’s pumped up on drugs, and it’s thrilling his brain, magnifying his senses, making everything feel _raw_. 

John came to find him. John who is married and lives further away now and has gained seven pounds and cycles to work and Sherlock hasn’t seen in over a month. John, who smells familiar, sitting in front of him. Who is a rush of competence and sheer magnificence and who will leave in a bit, as soon as he’s sure that there’s nothing wrong with him. 

Sherlock wants there to be something wrong with him. 

And there’s not. He’s working a case, getting high because that’s the clever thing to do, that’s what will make Magnussen underestimate him, or at least that seems to feel clever, like a thing that he decided once. Drugs have always been that, been right, and yes, it’s not the best choice but really. 

What else is there to do? 

Sherlock’s brain is pushing out of his skull. His arms feel strong, his body is hard planes of muscle, and he can do _anything_ , and… 

Mycroft is there. John brings him home and Mycroft is there, sitting on the stairs. Sherlock’s been avoiding him, because Mycroft can tell, always, and because he doesn’t want anyone to be able to tell. Mycroft already knows too much, already is too much. 

Sherlock remembers lying in Mycroft’s bed after the wedding, going with him to feel better and it stings. _Stupid._

Today, John will pretend to care. And Mycroft will roll his eyes and underneath assume that it’s all his fault because everything always is in his mind, he’s the one that carries and causes everything; Mycroft will feel guilty for a good long while. And then it’ll all pass and he’ll be alone again, because that’s how it goes - Sherlock is so used to it that he can see it happening in front of him like an old film, a montage of displeasure, and is faintly annoyed that it hasn’t happened yet and that he’ll have to live through it first. 

Sherlock pushes past Mycroft, so he leaves John, so he goes upstairs. Feeling like dirt. Like something wrapped up in itself, and he lies down on his chair, his chair, not John’s - John’s not here anymore - and stares. 

Mycroft brought people in to look for drugs, they’re scattered through the flat, touching his things and _chatting_. Janine is in his bedroom. 

Sherlock can hear Mycroft’s and John’s voices, both of them, here, and he should feel happiness, he thinks, probably. At least there’s no silence, now. But all he can feel is a large wave of thrumming irritation; he hates it, everything, this, both of them. 

Never wants to see either of them again.

Wants to rip off their clothes and slide inside. 

Mycroft talks about Magnussen, and “If you go against Magnussen, you go against me.” and isn’t that great, that’s exactly what Sherlock wants to do, _go against Mycroft_. Sherlock smiles, or he smiles in his mind, he’s not sure. 

He can feel his body, his self, huge and strong as he floats up and grabs Mycroft’s arm and twists it and throws him to the wall. Knee between his legs, crotch roughly pushed against Mycroft’s arse. Sherlock listens to Mycroft’s shocked exhale and wants to lean in and hear it again and again. Wants to bite his neck, and pull his trousers down, and just give it to him, like that. With John, oh, _John is here_ , watching, and then leave them both. 

So they know what it feels like. 

Sherlock breathes into Mycroft’s ear, “Don’t appal me when I’m high.” And he means it, the things he could do now are _more_ , he can imagine himself breaking Mycroft’s arm and laughing, laughing, laughing. 

He lets go, and Mycroft eyes him, then scampers away, just out of his reach.

Sherlock turns to John, and lies, “You can go now.” 

John frowns, talks. Sherlock doesn’t listen to the words. Mycroft says enough for John to leave, and as soon as he’s out the door, Sherlock can feel the sharp ache of his absence already. _I am so alone without you, John, why do you leave me, don’t leave me, I’m brilliant._

Mycroft is looking at him, and asks, matter-of-factly, “What do you need?” 

A bath. A fuck. Also, Sherlock remembers again, “There’s a woman in my bedroom.” 

Mycroft raises his eyebrows, and then, as if she heard, the door opens, and there’s Janine, dressed in nothing but one of his shirts. Sherlock feels a faint sense of confusion at the last bit. 

Mycroft puts on a fake smile and tells her that she should go, too. That his little brother’s high, and oh, isn’t that a familiar song-and-dance - Mycroft explaining, Mycroft _excusing him_. 

Sherlock winks at Janine, outrageously. He could probably have had sex with her, if he had to. He should have done it, and then she wouldn’t suspect, even though he doesn’t like the feeling of her against him.

Sherlock closes his eyes, and waits for her to be gone, and for all of this to be done. He can see white dots, forming white lines and _what about Magnussen, why is Mycroft so insistent on protecting him, what does he know?_ He’s horrible, Magnussen and/or Mycroft, Sherlock’s not certain, for a second they are one and the same. But then they twist away from one another, and one is deductions and history and _clever, Sherlock, well done._

They’re both liars. 

Sherlock opens his eyes again. He sees Mycroft, opening the door for Janine, dressed, now, ushering her out. Her little wave. Mycroft closes the door behind her rather forcefully. 

“My sheets smell like her.” Sherlock says. They do, and it annoys him. That’s why he moved John’s chair, too, if she sits on it enough it’s going to smell like her perfume. 

“Are you having sex with her?” 

And no, of course not. Or well, he might have to. “What do you care?” 

The words crumple Mycroft, for a small moment, before his face becomes a mask again. He seems old now. When did he get all those lines on his face, when did he become this man, stern and always so weighed-down? He used to laugh, once. 

Mycroft says, “Sherlock, I was serious. Don’t go after Magnussen.” 

And Sherlock moves, fast, as fast as he can and he’s across the room, tackling Mycroft, saying into his ear, “And I was serious. Don’t. Appal. Me.” He presses his crotch to Mycroft’s hip and was he hard before? Has he been this whole time? Sherlock’s not sure, but it’s right there, arousal. He could _take_ him. 

Mycroft sighs. Loosens his grip. 

But this is what he wants, too, Sherlock thinks, remembering the cellar. Serbia. He felt so good, then. So whole. They should do that again, if only they could do that again. _Hurt me, Mycroft._

Sherlock pushes him, right on the chest. Mycroft could torture him; he probably wants to, he’ll get off on it. And then it’ll feel right, then Sherlock will suffer, and it’ll all make sense, it’ll all go back again and he can try again and make it better, fix it. Sherlock looks to his room, no, pulls Mycroft’s sleeve, “John’s room.”

Mycroft shakes his head, “Sherlock, you’re high.” His face pulls, briefly, “And I believe that you were right about the bath, you can use one.” 

But no. No, Sherlock snaps, “What do you care whether I’m high?” Mycroft never cares, does he? As long as he can fuck him and be quiet about it afterwards, touch him once every couple of months because more is too much, apparently, _should keep some distance, Sherlock, can’t get too close._

Sherlock realises he’s right in Mycroft’s space, staring him down. 

Mycroft has something fearful in eyes. “Sherlock…” 

So Sherlock starts forward and kisses him, remembering the last time in the dark and how much Mycroft pretended to want it. Lying all tangled up in him and coming over him. 

Mycroft tries to struggle away, so Sherlock holds him right there, hard, presses his mouth to his and he can feel him give in. Sherlock pulls on Mycroft’s trousers, struggles to open them. Sherlock says to his ear, “I want you,” and “Please,” and “Mycroft,” he can feel it bubble out of him like thoughts that just fade into the wind. He sucks a circle onto his neck, and says, “Fuck me.” 

But Mycroft pulls away, brusquely, pushes him off, and says, “Not like this.” 

Sherlock reaches out, grabs his jacket, _do this to me so I can feel real_. 

Then wonders if he’s said it out loud, because Mycroft is looking infinitely sad. 

Mycroft swallows, and says, quietly, “Sherlock, take a bath, and go to sleep.” 

Sherlock eyes him, _you want me, you do, you always do_. He walks to the bathroom, yes, but starts stripping. Intends to give him a little show. 

Mycroft does actually follow him into the bathroom, and gets the taps running for him. Sherlock notices time skipping oddly, his hands moving by themselves. One second he’s pulling his clothes over his head, the next he’s naked. He steps into the bath; it’s hot, heat creeping almost painfully over his feet. He’s coming down from the high. 

Sherlock sits down and then leans back, lets the heat run between his legs and arse. 

Mycroft awkwardly sits on the edge of the bath. Looks at him. 

Sherlock slides back, lets the water rise and take his back and shoulders until his head is under and he can hear the tumbling of the tap, heat prickling his face, a blanket of quiet over his ears. His knees are sticking out of the water. He can feel the pressure of his breath in his chest, and breathes out in a rush of bubbles.

Sherlock lets the water stream and rush into his nose, stays even when his body wants another breath badly enough to make his chest ache, and his lungs spasm increasingly desperately. He knows that Mycroft is counting the seconds until he has to _rescue_ him. 

Sherlock doesn’t give him the satisfaction, right when he can feel his head start stinging with black and white spots he sits up again with a giant splash of water, and sucks in a large, painful breath. “Aaaah!” He can feel himself expand and deflate, gulp in air. 

Mycroft is looking at him disapprovingly. His suit is splashed upon, spots of a deep grey on the fabric, and suddenly it all seems like a giant joke, a terrible metaphor - Sherlock’s trying to drown and not succeeding, and Mycroft sits by the side and does _not approve_.

“Go away.”

Mycroft, pretending he didn’t hear, hands him the shower gel. 

Sherlock washes quickly, roughly. He doesn’t care, but Mycroft’s eyes on him make him feel every line of his body regardless. He wants to make Mycroft do it, make him take away the dirt and the smell of the drug den, sharp neglect in his nose, piss and cold, but he doesn’t ask. It almost smelled good. He was _undercover_ , he was doing this because it’s right, because it’s a case. Mycroft should be proud.

But Mycroft doesn’t touch him at all. He just watches with concern pulling at the corners of his mouth. Sherlock wants to make Mycroft fuck him, and throw him out in equal measure so he does neither. So it’s fragmented moments where he washes his hair and closes his eyes and dunks himself under again, allows the water to rinse him clean. 

He doesn’t feel clean. 

Mycroft gives him a towel, and Sherlock gets up and out and stands there, dripping. 

He doesn’t want to be looked at, now. Mycroft’s eyes are like knives, intrusive and sharp. 

Sherlock walks to his room, still-wet feet slipping on the floor, and slams the door shut behind him hard enough that it opens again. He expects Mycroft to follow. To come in and hold him, and tell him not to do this to himself, and sound as if he cares. 

He doesn’t. 

Sherlock falls down on the sheets that still smell like Janine, flowery and feminine and he can’t _breathe_ , can’t _think_ , can’t _anything_. 

He pushes himself up again, _still wet, why is he still wet_. Sherlock goes back to the living room, and there is Mycroft, about to leave. So Sherlock presses on, closer, closer, pushes him until Mycroft’s body is nearly his and Mycroft is standing against the door, the knob digging into his back. 

“I hate you.” Sherlock says it with absolute conviction. _I despise you, I…_

Mycroft swallows. 

Looks him in the eye, and says, “I know.”

He leaves. And Sherlock trails back to his room, and curls up in John’s chair, naked. Thinks of breaking into Magnussen’s office, and asking Janine to marry him, and plans to be clever. He thinks of the things that he needs to do. 

The things that matter.

 

 

 

 

 


	7. (11 November 2014)

 

 

Mary shoots Sherlock. 

It is every dark possibility, every nightmare suddenly brought into sharp reality. 

It lives in Mycroft’s throat. In his hands. In every order that he barks, in every command that he gives. His power is vast and he will do _anything_ , but he cannot. He cannot. 

Mycroft places security by Sherlock’s hospital room, knowing that it’s not enough. Mycroft talks to John on the phone, and turns and twists his words so that he does not appear too concerned, or too angry. Mycroft pretends to help Lestrade in his investigation, and only gives him a false lead.

Magnussen lies as well, mostly to preserve his own skin. And Mycroft is all too aware that that’s what he’s doing, too. 

It is a web of lies, a terrible situation in every light, and Mycroft cannot do anything without sacrificing something too large to consider, so he does nothing to avenge Sherlock. Nothing at all. He is forced to stay in-between actions, to cover up, and wait. 

And normally Mycroft is excellent at this game. Patience. Seeing the greater picture. But he cannot even go to the hospital. Sherlock very nearly died, and the thought of it, even though Mycroft has every bit of information and the rationalisation that there is nothing that he could have done, nothing he _can_ do, is deeply disquieting. He has always understood the value of restraint, but in this case Mycroft can barely stop himself from walking up to those who deserve it, and shooting them straight in the head. 

Or in the case of Mary, make certain that they torture her first. Tell her that she’ll never see the light of day, or her child, ever again. 

But Mary is part of a larger whole - everything is. Sherlock is only chasing his vow and John, and it would be almost displeasingly pedestrian, if it weren’t so very human of him. Love. 

Mycroft has seen Sherlock’s agony, his spiral of self-destruction after John’s wedding. He does not know how to stop him. 

Sherlock attempts to escape the hospital after Mary confronts him, and Mycroft sends a car for him, sends people to do everything Sherlock needs, but it is not enough. 

Sherlock is in the hospital for weeks, his body ravaged by the gunshot but more so by his escape, by drugs, by neglect. He recovers slowly, and Mycroft feels the responsibility for that, too. He is complicit in it as much as he is capable of helping. He is the cause and cure, the sting and the balm, all warped into the years that they have between them. 

Sherlock gets brought home, to Baker Street, and there are cameras there, now, too. Nowhere Mycroft can meet him without being observed, and he is loath to ask Sherlock to his own home, not until he is better, he tells himself. 

It is also because Mycroft does not know what he would do if Sherlock would press him. If Sherlock reads it in his eyes in an unguarded moment. Sherlock would try to save him. Mycroft knows him well enough for that, he would try. But there is no saving this. 

It is a rainy evening in November when Sherlock comes to him instead. 

Mycroft is in a different office once more, he rotates them in unpredictable patterns now. Large ceilings, a distant view of the Thames, windows speckled with the constant assault of rain. He is working by the light of a small lamp, a glass of whisky by his side. It is late, and he is not so much working through the night as simply occupying himself for a while more while the rain trails down the windows, when the doorknob turns, and Sherlock walks in. 

Sherlock should not be able to find him here, but that has never stopped him. 

He is soaking wet. Caught in the downpour. 

Sherlock closes the door behind him, immediately locks it as well, and he seems so much more alive than the pictures Mycroft has seen of him, than the grainy feeds that he has near-religiously checked. “Forget about me?”

_No, not for a single second, awake or dreaming._ “Of course not. I have simply been…” _forced to._ Mycroft looks around, “Busy.” 

It is a shameful excuse, one that any reasonable person would fight, but Sherlock just nods. 

Sherlock’s hair is dripping with rain. Drops are pearling on the wool of his coat. His shoes are reflecting the light. 

Mycroft gets up, steps around his desk, and says carefully, so very much disliking the restraint of language, its inability to contain any true meaning, “It is good to see you on your feet.” 

Sherlock tilts his head, and Mycroft observes the pallor of his skin. The dark shadows underneath his eyes, he is not completely well, still. “I was nearly murdered.” 

_I know. I know, brother mine._ “Yes, quite the mystery.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. Steps close enough that Mycroft can feel the wave of cold air that he brought from outside. “Yes. _Quite._ ”

Mycroft takes Sherlock’s hand. He is bone-cold. 

He could scold him - tell him not to walk outside for however long he did in the rain. But Mycroft says nothing, instead takes Sherlock’s hand between his own, and rubs some heat into it. He can see Sherlock’s annoyed expression at such a worried, platonic gesture, but Mycroft ignores it. _Do you really think that I would not have been there if I could?_

He takes Sherlock’s other hand, and Sherlock lets him. Mycroft, selfishly - you are aware that you ruin him - steps close, and wraps Sherlock in his arms. He can feel the stiffness of Sherlock’s posture, the sudden inhale, but Mycroft embraces him, and oh, how he has longed to do that. The cold and wetness of him is rather unpleasant, but still Mycroft holds on. _I have missed you so very dearly._

Sherlock relaxes gradually. After a while, Mycroft can hear Sherlock’s faint chuckle in his ear. “You’ll ruin your suit.” 

Mycroft lets go, and tries to appear a great deal more blasé about any of this than he truly is. “You were nearly murdered. I can afford to.” 

Of course Sherlock sees beyond what he is saying, a quick flicker of interest in his eyes, and he says, “Can you?” 

_No._ He cannot.

Sherlock still seems pale and ill, but he is staring at him with a curious smile on his lips now. He seems surprised at the display of affection, and so is Mycroft. It is rare that he would initiate such a contact.

Sherlock looks at him, and starts unbuttoning his coat. He hangs it over a chair. He is soaked down to his jacket and the legs of his trousers, Mycroft can see the difference in saturation of the fabric. He considers that it might be good to warm him up. 

Sherlock pulls his shoulders awkwardly trying to get out of his jacket, so Mycroft reaches out and helps Sherlock shrug out of the wet fabric, feeling strangely courteous as he does it. He fully expects a rebuttal for it. _‘I’m not a child, Mycroft.’_ But Sherlock is silent. Even when Mycroft hangs his jacket up for him, making certain that it will not wrinkle. 

Sherlock has opened his shirt buttons by the time he is back, so Mycroft helps him out of that as well, and there is the bullet wound. A scar, now, still red and raised, some faint bruising around it. It will heal. 

Mycroft can barely look at it. Sherlock eyes him, but does not comment. Mycroft hesitantly runs his hands over Sherlock’s chest, then his back. Sherlock’s wet hair brushes Mycroft’s cheek as he trails his hands over his cold, clammy skin, so he rubs them up and down vigorously. _What did you do outside?_

Sherlock toes off his shoes. 

He pulls off his socks, and then his trousers and pants, and Mycroft knows how this will end. He could object. But he appreciates the sheer miracle of having Sherlock here, stunningly naked, in his office. 

He is very aware that he nearly lost him. 

Sherlock is not aroused yet, but Mycroft gets to his knees. Sherlock does not have to order him. He never has.

Mycroft smells rain and the faint musk of Sherlock’s skin, then takes him between his lips, his flesh cool there, too, and sucks, lightly. Mycroft enjoys the opportunity of feeling him soft like this in his mouth, to get to roll the shape of him with his tongue. 

Sherlock fills out and gets harder, his blood rushing there.

Mycroft licks the length of him. Takes him deep until he is nosing Sherlock’s groin, knowing Sherlock particularly enjoys that. And yes, Sherlock puts a hand by his head, and holds him close, so Mycroft tries to keep his throat open as he grows in his mouth. Allows them to be one, for just this one moment, his eyes closed, forehead pressed against Sherlock’s stomach, his scent strong and warm in his nose. 

Eventually Mycroft does pull off again, and watches Sherlock. The span of his stomach above him, the rise of his small nipples. And his face, haloed by black curls, his eyes, glowing. 

Sherlock moves away, and his erection presses wetly to Mycroft’s cheek for a moment. 

Mycroft sits back on his legs, and then, aware of how his knees ache already, stands up. 

Sherlock searches through his coat, and takes out a small bottle of lube and a condom. Mycroft is taken aback somewhat at seeing it, knowing that Sherlock thought to bring it. That Sherlock had already forgiven him before ever walking in. 

He can feel the twist of his own desire, and says, “Perhaps you might use that on me.” 

Sherlock’s eyes flick towards him in surprise. It is rare for them to do this, Sherlock does not ask for it often although he does enjoy it. And Mycroft cannot remember a time when he proposed it himself. 

Sherlock nods, something considering in his face as he comes close. 

Mycroft opens his own trousers, undoes the clasps of his suspenders. He feels the idea of it playing over his skin. He should lean over the desk, so that he will never be able to work here again without remembering this. There should be a ghost of himself and Sherlock in this room. 

Sherlock gets on his knees himself, right in front of him, takes some lube on his fingers, and places them between his buttocks. Mycroft spreads his legs slightly. Sherlock leans in, and takes him into his mouth. Mycroft was not fully hard either, but he can feel his body being suddenly awakened like this, at the sight of Sherlock before him. The feeling of his warm mouth. His fingers moving to stretch him, somewhat inexpertly, which he finds oddly pleasing. 

Sherlock is careful, but still it feels invasive. Sherlock’s mouth on him is a great pleasure, of course, licking and sucking, he always does it with eagerness, but Mycroft keeps on tensing against Sherlock’s fingers as they are stretching him. He is not used to this. Sherlock stops licking him, and looks up. 

Mycroft intends to offer that he stands against the desk, but Sherlock gives him a pull. 

Oh. Mycroft feels a slight distaste at doing this _on the floor_ , carpeted and clean as it is, they have not quite sunk to this level in years. But he does kneel down. And then, feeling faintly uncomfortable, sits, and pulls his trousers off with his shoes and socks in a tangle, and briefly feels as if that is what he is, too. A tangle of civility, to be thrown to the ground. 

Sherlock’s eyes are on him. He seems to be, while not exhilarated, at least intrigued by doing this. 

Mycroft, with a look, _the floor_ , lies down. It’s hard underneath his spine, and he can see the ceiling from an odd perspective. Then Sherlock moves between his legs and takes him into his mouth again, his fingers stretching him with more patience than Mycroft is entirely certain he deserves. 

Sherlock is searching, his fingers pressing upwards, and then, ah, all of Mycroft’s muscles seem suddenly sharply lined by the spike of pleasure and he breathes shakily. Sherlock hums around his cock, looking pleased with himself. 

Sherlock knows what it feels like, of course. Mycroft has done this exact thing to him often, and he finds it utterly delicious to stretch Sherlock’s body around his fingers. To feel him open up, and give in, and then take him. 

Sherlock leans away again, takes more lube, and Mycroft wants to ask him to go faster, but at the same time knows that that is only going to hurt. Sherlock hits his prostate again, and the resulting series of little shocks running through him are visible enough in his face and in his body that Sherlock smiles. 

“Soon,” he says. 

“Yes.” Mycroft feels glad to hear him speak. He tightens his muscles around Sherlock’s hand, and he can feel him press his fingers over his prostate and hold them there in retaliation. He eyes Sherlock. “Please.” 

Sherlock nods, and slides his fingers out, takes the condom, and puts it on himself. Mycroft is charmed by the image. Of Sherlock, despite the muscle definition and weight that he has lost by being ill, still so gorgeous. Feeling this for him. About to take him. 

Sherlock leans over him, and tries to breach him. He slips away at first, which fills Mycroft with an unexpected tenderness. Watching the small frown on Sherlock’s forehead, his obvious intent to do this _well_. And then he aims right, and Mycroft can feel himself being stretched over him and taken, the burn of it together with the sheer meaning… breath-taking. 

Mycroft cannot take his eyes off Sherlock. Sherlock’s mouth is half-opened as he breathes deeply, controlling himself. Mycroft wonders if he wants to thrust straight away, if he wants to disappear inside of him and take him, and the thought together with the sensation of Sherlock filling him makes him shudder. 

Sherlock pushes on, and Mycroft takes the deep ache of him between his legs. It is such a sharp spike of fullness, between being hurt and being sated, and Mycroft wonders how Sherlock was able to stand it all those times that he has taken him. How Sherlock did not cry out, and ask for him to do it forever, and never again. 

Sherlock settles his hips against his, inside of him fully now, and Mycroft can swallow the sound that he wants to make, some deep groan, but it is overwhelming. He closes his eyes, and tries to keep on breathing. His whole body is crying out conflicting information. He is shaking. He has Sherlock over him, he wants to look at him and hold him but it might be too much. Mycroft tries not to give away how painful this is, but yet he is hard as well. 

Sherlock leans on his arms and starts moving, which is enough to make Mycroft gasp for breath. He can never do this again, Mycroft thinks in the back of his mind, it is too much, he cannot stand it. 

Sherlock leans down, and kisses him, on the side of his face, gently. 

Mycroft wants to respond, to pull him in and keep him there forever. But he is afraid, too afraid of all that will say. _I am so sorry, brother mine. I am so sorry._

Still, Sherlock lingers. Mycroft forces himself to face him. Sherlock’s eyes are mostly concerned, but he can see the desire in them, too, which is what makes him say, “It is… overwhelming.” 

Sherlock smiles lightly. He lingers on his neck, kisses it, his shoulder, and Mycroft’s legs are falling open. When Sherlock moves this time, in shaky little thrusts, he can take them easier. 

Sherlock even takes Mycroft’s leg, and puts it over his side, then the other as well. Which is faintly ridiculous and more athletic than Mycroft quite can manage, but when Sherlock moves now he genuinely can feel it rub his whole body into desire. Mycroft locks his ankles over Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock is a hot, muscled shape moving over him. 

Sherlock looks down at him with a slight sense of wonder. And Mycroft thinks, _please know that I love you_ , his skin crawling with the overwhelming invasion of this. 

Sherlock manages to get a hand between them, and touches Mycroft’s erection. It changes the sensation of being filled and Mycroft is making desperate movements; both leaning away and into him, not certain what he wants, the sharp, undefined pleasure-pain of it pressing behind his skin.

Sherlock leans back more, looks down at him, and strokes him like that while he pushes into him. Mycroft wants to tell him to stop, but this will last only so long, only this moment. He pulls Sherlock in instead and Sherlock moves, harder, now, _fucks him_ , his eyes already hazy with it. It is deeply precious to watch, and Mycroft collects every second of it greedily. Sherlock’s mouth opens in a nearly comical little ‘oh’ as his hips pound, and he shudders, and Mycroft can feel him twitch inside of him, can feel him come.

Sherlock sinks down on top of him, and breathes into his skin. It is deeply uncomfortable on the cold, hard floor. Sherlock is heavy and all bones, but Mycroft wants him to never move. 

Sherlock’s cock slips out of him by itself as he softens, and Sherlock rolls off him. And then reaches out, and wraps a hand around him. Oh. Mycroft has nearly forgotten that he is still hard himself, and he wants to tell Sherlock not to bother, but Sherlock has managed to find a curl of desire inside of him regardless. Mycroft’s cock rises to his hand. 

Sherlock’s eyes linger on his, and Mycroft finds himself getting lost in them while Sherlock pulls him off, hand practised, doing it exactly how Mycroft does it himself. _You’re so beautiful, Sherlock._ Sherlock’s eyes are bright in this light, Sherlock is following his pleasure along with him, _wants_ to give this to him. 

Mycroft reaches the edge easily, for him. Sherlock touches him at the exact right moment, just a trace to his thigh, but all of him shudders apart in reply, and Mycroft comes into Sherlock’s hand. 

Then lies back, feeling his breath rush, still, and his heart hammer. 

Sherlock lets go of him. Mycroft should move, but he is not entirely certain that he can get up off the floor right now, and Sherlock seems to be of a similar mind, because he just moves to the side, and lies there. 

Sherlock touches the scar on his chest, briefly, and then stares at the ceiling. 

Mycroft feels scraped raw, like this. Inside and out. As if he ripped himself to pieces, gave them all to Sherlock, and hoped that it would tell him something. Or that it would punish himself, Mycroft recognises, but he does not feel punished by this. Mainly, he feels outside of himself. 

Sherlock eventually sits up, turns away, and it has only been a minute or so but yet it feels like a lifetime ago already, that moment of absolute contact between them. 

Sherlock takes the condom off. He stands, all pale skin and muscle, and puts it in the small, discreet rubbish bin in the corner, together with the wrapper. Mycroft makes a mental note that he will need to get rid of that himself, later. He cannot risk a cleaner finding it. 

Mycroft gets up himself by way of his knees and gathers his clothes, aware that it has hardly the same grace as Sherlock’s movement did. But Mycroft’s legs are still shaking with exertion, and he cannot quite keep the painful stretch of moving off his face, because Sherlock’s eyes flicker towards him before he asks, “Hurt?” 

Mycroft is surprised that Sherlock would even enquire, never mind care. “Only somewhat. I imagine that sitting might be adventurous for the next day or so.” 

Sherlock nods briefly at that, but it feels better than most of what they have done tonight. The fact that they can actually face themselves, after this. 

Sherlock starts dressing again. 

And Mycroft wants to tell him to be careful. That there is _so much_ , so many things that Sherlock cannot possibly know about, and Mycroft feels the sheer absence of knowledge – an avalanche of information that he cannot share with Sherlock without potentially involving him more - like a living thing between them. 

Then Sherlock says, while stepping into his trousers, “We’ll need to plan.” 

And Mycroft feels a faint ember of hope. 

Sherlock takes his shirt, and awkwardly shrugs into it - perhaps less careful to hide the wince of hurt that that causes him now, or perhaps tonight’s activity was rather much for him, as well - and eyes him, “She can’t shoot me and get away with it.” 

And Mycroft can feel a deep sense of _absolutely_ settle over him. He feels so grateful that Sherlock sees that much, at least. He says, darkly, his mind fully on revenge, “She won’t.” 

Perhaps he is giving away too much, because Sherlock’s gaze is intelligent, “ _Won’t she?_ ” 

Sherlock is already deducing what he means by that, what he is planning to do. So Mycroft smiles, and does not commit himself either way, _too dangerous_. But he can see the cogs start spinning in Sherlock’s mind. 

Sherlock finishes dressing while still looking endearingly pensive, and throws him a small smile before walking out. “Brother dear.” 

Mycroft tilts his head, feeling better than he has in weeks. 

Perhaps they might fight together.

 

 

 

 

 


	8. (25 December 2014)

 

 

Having a family Christmas is torture, of course. 

But it is even worse for _Mycroft_. 

Sherlock’s sitting in Mummy’s kitchen, half-listening to her and Mycroft sneering the way they’ve been doing for as long as he can remember. It’s tedious, this. Waiting. 

A couple more hours until he can drug everyone, and until then it’s this little charade, trying to play the happy family, trying to be something that they’re very much not. John is coming, too, and Mary is in the living room. The illusion is nearly complete. When he squints, they seem normal. 

Sherlock used to count down the days to the 25th. Not so much now, of course, but it’s no coincidence that he promised Magnussen Mycroft _for Christmas_ : that’s what he used to have, too. For years this was the time when Mycroft used to come home from uni, and he was his, for a couple days. Where he was the one interesting thing in between all these dull conversations, traditions and conventions. 

The kitchen smells like cooking. Too much, as always; Mummy is making food for ten at least. Sherlock’s eating some baked thing that tastes sugary and filling. He doesn’t look at Mycroft, carefully moves his eyes around him. Father is hanging around Mary, being boring, and it’s all so dull and so much like stepping back in time that he feels eighteen again, bored and useless. 

Sherlock knows that Mycroft’s endless complaining is to distract himself from this day and the memories. That’s he’s feeling _the ghosts of Christmases past_. It’s obvious in his voice, in his face, even in the way that he has rolled up his sleeves. 

Sherlock’s surprised that he even agreed to come today, but on the other hand, maybe not. Maybe Mycroft did want to have another time like this. Together. 

Sherlock’s waiting for the moment when Mycroft’s childish sighs becomes genuine annoyance. If Mummy calls him Mike on more time, or makes a reference to his job being nothing special, or if she… yes, puts her potato peels on Mycroft’s laptop. Mycroft’s fingers spasm in irritation. He is still smiling but it has taken on a hard edge, and Sherlock is fairly certain that he is imagining ten ways to kill Mummy with what is available on the table alone. It’s an old game that they used to play – Mycroft winning usually; he can be deeply gruesome when he wants to be. 

Sherlock doesn’t meet Mycroft’s eye, just gets up, grabs his coat, and steps outside. 

And he’s right. Sherlock makes it only to the gate, breathing in the cold air and enjoying a second of silence, his ears ringing from the constant carols and chattering, when the door opens behind him and he hears Mycroft’s sigh. 

“I find myself disliking this charade even more than I remember.”

Sherlock turns around, gives him a little grin. “What, Christmas _joy_?” 

Mycroft rolls his eyes. 

Sherlock smiles at him, _you do remember what we used to do_ , and says, “Hm. I always loved it. Favourite day of the year.” 

Mycroft looks briefly caught out, but then nods tentatively. 

Sherlock tilts his head towards the garden, and they start walking together. Fall into step without trying to. Sherlock looks at their feet, their paces evenly matched as they’re finding their way over a path they’ve walked so many times. 

Mycroft looks around cautiously; of course. He always did worry. But they can’t be seen from the main house, they both checked that quite carefully a long, long time ago. 

Sherlock opens the door to the shed. 

It’s dim inside, and the smell of it immediately brings memories with it, even though it’s been years. Wood, and the humid scent of earth. The dust of gardening tools, unused in the middle of winter. 

It’s fairly clean, the workbenches are empty of plants, and the walls have some spider webs. It’s a far cry from the hot, sweaty thing it is in summer, filled with seedlings and sun streaming through the cracks in the wood, sweat dripping down his spine as… 

Sherlock looks at Mycroft, and feels it sitting sharp in his stomach. Already. 

Mycroft closes the small lock system they’d invented and installed a very long time ago. It’s hard to see, stuck inside the door, but it locks it perfectly and cannot be opened from the outside. Sherlock hears the sound of the wood clicking into place, locking them in.

He’s half-hard already. 

And he’s willing to bet Mycroft is, too. Too many memories here, but also the waiting, the irritation of being back, reduced to being someone’s children, it’s like nails scratching over a raw wound. 

Sherlock scans the walls, and wonders if some evidence is still here from years ago. Whether he could find traces of their come and sweat, skin cells and hairs, if he looked for it. Telling something implausible, but not untrue. 

Mycroft follows his gaze. “Memories?” 

He sounds husky already. It’s half-dark, and it feels so near, now. 

“A few.” Sherlock takes off his coat, and puts it aside. 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, but he knew that this was going to happen, too. It’s why Mycroft wore corduroys today - they don’t _wrinkle_. 

Sherlock puts his hands on the buttons of his trousers, and steps back against the wall, momentarily feeling as if there should be an outline of himself there, at this very spot. 

Mycroft steps close, and helps. Unbuttons his trousers for him, gets his hands underneath, pulls his pants down, and strokes him. Sherlock leans back gratefully. 

Then, with a look, Mycroft gets down to his knees. On the wooden, dirty floor. 

Sherlock can feel a smile play around his lips. Oh _yes_. He’ll get to spend the rest of this damned day with this image in his mind: Mycroft on his knees in front of him, in the garden shed, aching for it. 

Mycroft presses a dry kiss to the edge of his hipbone. His teeth scrape the thin skin of his hip, and Sherlock can feel a shiver run over his entire body. 

Mycroft doesn’t dawdle, takes his erection in his mouth, and Sherlock closes his eyes. He doesn’t watch Mycroft. Just feels it, his warm mouth and lips, sucking him, long waves of feeling. And he wants it, to come in Mycroft’s mouth today, to feel him swallow, to go back and know that Mycroft will still be tasting him. 

Sherlock drifts on it, the practised, perfect sucking, until Mycroft slows down and lets him pop out. His cock feels cold in the air, wet now. Sherlock’s eyes flutter open slowly, _what?_ He was going to come like that. 

But Mycroft puts a hand on his hip, and says, his voice pleasingly rough, “Turn.” 

Mycroft must be feeling particularly annoyed if he wants to do that here and go face Mummy after. Sherlock grins lightly. He turns, leans his arms against the wall, and spreads his legs. 

Mycroft pulls Sherlock’s trousers further down, and kisses his lower back. Sherlock relaxes, and rests his face on his arms. 

Mycroft’s nose presses against his skin, and then his mouth licks his tail bone. He scrapes his teeth there, too, and Sherlock shudders. Mycroft’s lips go down just a little, kiss right under his tailbone, and lick there. Sherlock can feel his leg muscles tensing, his toes wiggling in his shoes, _ah_.

Mycroft sighs, turned on. Sherlock can hear it in his voice. 

It feels great. Warm. Wet. Sherlock shifts his knees, so he opens up a little more. 

Mycroft pushes his tongue in-between his arse cheeks and Sherlock nearly moves away from the sensation, it’s so good. Mycroft slowly flutters his tongue down, light licks from his tailbone to – ah _there_ – all the way down to tickle his balls. 

Then up again, bit by bit. He’s pushing his tongue now, being _thorough_ , and Sherlock can feel himself uselessly move his hips to get him closer, his cock jutting out into nothing. Sherlock lowers his head, and sighs. This is… he didn’t quite remember how this feels, the shocks of it, the wetness. It’s shockingly good. 

Mycroft puts a hand on either side of his arse and pulls his cheeks apart. It feels exposed, Mycroft breathes over it, and Sherlock can feel his arsehole twitch and flutter. Sherlock moves his hips back, _do it_. 

There’s the pressure of Mycroft’s lips, a little kiss, right over his hole. The cold bump of his nose. And then his tongue, licking over it, and the tip of his tongue pressing in. Sherlock moans, barely audible, they can’t make too much noise here, but Mycroft heard it, he knows he did. It makes his face feel hot. 

His cock’s hitting his belly now, and Sherlock can feel himself tighten over the intrusion, and Mycroft pressing back, stretching the muscle, fucking him with his tongue. It’s making shivers run over his back, making his whole body lean into that one, tiny movement. 

Sherlock pushes his arse to Mycroft’s face, and Mycroft _laps_ at him, making slick little sounds that Sherlock fixes in his mind, for later. He wants to remember them when Mycroft smiles smugly at him over the kitchen table. 

Mycroft adds a finger, slips it in so slowly that Sherlock does not even feel it until he contracts over the edge of his nail and fingertip. And then Mycroft’s tongue is there, too, and he’s fingering and licking him at the same time, his nose pressed between his cheeks, his whole face there. Getting _wet_. 

Sherlock bites his lips. He can feel the waves of it flowing through his body, making him want to thrust, to push backwards. 

Mycroft adds a second finger, and then splits them apart, opens him up, and his tongue laps in-between. Inside of him. Sherlock can feel his lower back spasm with the effort of tilting himself towards his mouth, he’s tensing the muscles in his arse, and he’s so, so… He groans, he can feel it right there, he can feel Mycroft’s fingers inside of him, curling, pressing, “Oh.” He hates the tremble in his voice. 

Sherlock leans his forehead on his arms. His legs are shaking, his arse is _wet_ and _open_ , his cock is twitching continually. He opens his mouth in silent pleasure, he’s shaking now, and he can barely keep it back. “Hmm!” he’s whining, but he can’t, he can’t… 

Mycroft is moving his finger back and forth over his prostate. Mycroft licks him, pushing his tongue in, wetly, the sound decadent. A drop of pre-come rolls off his cock, and Sherlock swallows, the sensation is enough to nearly …

Mycroft, knowing that he’s close, presses on his prostate, turns his finger and fucks him with his tongue as well in hard thrusts, and Sherlock can feel it rising, unstoppable. He moans continuously now, lowly, “Oh, oh, I…” He slaps his hand to the wall. 

His hips move uselessly, his cock stands up, the slit dilating, and Mycroft’s fingers feel huge. Sherlock can feel his tongue probe him. And the deep rush of it tingles from his toes, heat his stomach, and then run over him. He groans helplessly, and he comes, his arse twitching over Mycroft’s tongue, he’s spraying the wall, dribbling on his shoes. Mycroft’s fingers keep him going, press on his prostate shudder after shudder, until he feels dry, just wrung out, and sags back against the wall. 

Mycroft lets his fingers slip out, but Sherlock can barely feel it, still lost in the little hitches of desire. That was _stunning_. He hasn’t come like that in forever. 

Mycroft gets up. Sherlock can hear him open his trousers, but he can’t muster the desire to do anything at all. There’s warm spit slicking his inner legs. 

Mycroft’s hand settles on his thigh, and that makes him twitch again, a mild aftershock. Sherlock can hear Mycroft’s exhale, pleased, aroused, and there’s the brush of his erection against his arse, warm, and already wet. 

Sherlock, with some effort, looks over his shoulder, and looks Mycroft in the eye. “Brother dear.”

“Yes.” Mycroft breathes out, and teases the slick head of his cock between his arse cheeks, spreading the spit around, wet and indulgent. 

Sherlock feels covered, like this. Hears Mycroft’s jagged breaths when he moves himself back and forth, _pretends_ to fuck him. Cock sliding between his arse cheeks sloppily.

Mycroft’s lips press against his neck. Sherlock can smell himself, _sex_ , and it feels great, knowing that Mycroft did that. That Mycroft’s this thing vibrating with tension right now, wanting to be inside of him, not doing it but getting off on it, anyway. 

Mycroft’s pushing his cock between his thighs now, opting for friction, and Sherlock rocks his hips for him, feels him slide there. Feels his face against his shoulder, his hot breaths into the fabric of his jacket. 

Mycroft puts a hand on him, too, holds Sherlock’s mostly-soft cock, and his hand feels good there. Warm. Sherlock can feel Mycroft’s thrusts speed up, he’s close, so he says, “Come on me.” 

Mycroft’s hands tighten briefly in reply, and Sherlock can feel his rhythm falter, feels him come between his legs, hears his deep sigh in his ear. He’s coming all over his arse and Sherlock loves the thought. _For me._

Mycroft slows down, stills, but stays leaning against him. 

Sherlock can feel the outline of Mycroft’s face on his shoulder, his lips, kissing him though his clothes in thanks. He closes his eyes. “Hmmm.” 

Mycroft steps away. 

When Sherlock moves and turns around, his arse cheeks feels slick with wetness. There is come dripping down his legs now, he can feel it. Even in the low light Mycroft looks flushed. 

Mycroft’s lips pull into a cautious smile as he sees him looking, and Sherlock smiles too. 

He can’t quite believe that Mycroft did this here _now_ , with that many people in the house. “Feel better?” _Seriously, Mycroft._

“I… do.” Mycroft seems to be a bit bewildered himself that he did this. He smiles again, briefly. Then starts looking down at himself, takes his handkerchief, wipes himself, and fusses with the knees of his trousers to get the dirt off. 

Mycroft hands Sherlock his handkerchief when he’s done, and Sherlock cleans down to his knees, his stomach, then between his arse cheeks, aware that he really needs a wash. Later, in the bathroom. 

He looks at the wall, too, and wipes it off. They made a mess. 

Sherlock doesn’t mind. 

Actually, watching Mycroft obsessively straightening his clothes back into place makes him want to do the opposite, to walk out still looking like it. What they did. Tell Mummy over dinner, _Mycroft has been going down on me in the garden shed for the last twenty years, did you know?_

But he doesn’t, of course. Sherlock pulls his clothes into some form of order, and wears his coat again, and buttons it. He’ll go straight through to the bathroom once they’re inside. 

They exit the shed carefully. Mycroft goes first, looking around. No one saw, of course. They can say that they went to _look at the garden_. Mycroft scans him for tells, and Sherlock does the same for Mycroft, front and back, they both make certain that there are no suspicious spots or creases, bits of dirt, anything. 

Then walk back to the house, slowly. 

Sherlock doesn’t want to go back inside, and he can feel the same reluctance in Mycroft. 

Sherlock wonders if he’s still tasting his arse. He rather likes the thought. 

But they can’t go in smelling like sex. 

They stop once they reach the gate. Sherlock puts his hands in his pockets, and touches the packet of cigarettes that he brought. He pulls it out, “Smoke?”

“Please.” Mycroft takes a cigarette, and lights it. 

Sherlock has a one as well, inhales the smoke greedily, and then lets it curl around his head, into the cool air. Time for Magnussen now. He’s been planning this for months. 

Mycroft glances at him, and notes, “You hate him that much?” 

Sherlock looks at him, “Why don’t you?”

“He never causes too much damage to anyone important.” Mycroft glances at him. “He’s not a dragon for you to slay, Sherlock.”

Mycroft’s plans are always complicated, filled with double meanings and things he is not saying. It’s annoying. But Sherlock does his own thinking. He can move beyond Mycroft’s stilted rhetoric and actually accomplish things, he doesn’t need Mycroft’s permission. He’s going to anyway and they both know it. 

Sherlock turns away from the house. They both look at the line of trees, bare now. “A dragon slayer. Is that what you think of me?” 

Sherlock leans into Mycroft a bit, and he’s gratified to feel Mycroft leaning back, comfortably. To see him smile lightly, “No, it’s what you think of yourself.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock considers it. _Dragon slayer._ He smokes, quietly. 

The air is cold. It’s chilling, chasing what they just did from his body, leaving only the memory, for later. Sherlock feels clear-headed, now. More in control. 

But Mycroft’s eyes are shaded as he adds, quietly, “And here be dragons.” 

Mycroft seems as if he wants to say something more, but then avoids his eye. “This isn’t agreeing with me. I’m going in.” 

It’s a lie, of course. 

Mycroft walks away, and Sherlock can practically see the weight settle back onto his shoulders. Mycroft’s severely worried; somehow, overflowing with love and guilt, he has been for a while. 

Mycroft stills by the door, and looks back. “Sherlock…” 

He’s hiding things, and Sherlock knows it. But not what, or why. Mycroft’s eyes run over him, and he seems to want to say _everything_. “As much as I despise Christmas… I always treasured it for the moments I got to spend with you.” 

Sherlock blinks.

Mycroft leaves, so Sherlock smokes the rest of his cigarette alone, watching the house they grew up in. 

Still feeling Mycroft’s touch, and the rush of a _marvellous_ orgasm. 

Thinking of dragons.

 

 

 

 

 


	9. (12 January 2015)

 

 

Sherlock shoots Magnussen in the head. Mycroft feels a level of panic witnessing it that he has rarely experienced as an adult.

Mycroft does not remember yelling, but he assumes that he did because his throat hurts and his voice croaks for days afterwards. He does not sleep, does not rest until he gets Sherlock away from the justice system. Until he gets him safe. Mycroft pulls in favours and uses his influence to its utmost, no longer caring that it shows his hand and that it reveals his devotion to Sherlock. It needs to be done. 

Sherlock is at home right now, in Baker Street, under strict surveillance. And today he is flying from a private airfield to a mission that was determined to be too deadly for anyone else with the necessary skill set. 

Mycroft will pick him up at ten.

There is a text at six in the morning, Sherlock correctly assuming that he is awake. “ _Come early. SH_ ” 

“ _Cameras disabled. SH_ ” 

They are not Mycroft’s, those cameras, and Sherlock must know that by now. He finally must be seeing the edges of the web spanning around them, connecting them through _leverage_. Mary, through John, through Sherlock, to Mycroft. But much more prevalent, for years and years already, Sherlock to Mycroft. _Dear me, Mister Holmes, what did your little brother do now. Dear me, Mister Holmes, poor Sherlock. Dear…_

Years.

Sherlock is his one weakness, and eventually he will be his fatal one, Mycroft has always known that. 

Men who do what he does cannot afford to feel love. 

Mycroft makes it to Baker Street by seven. He orders the security personnel away and runs every possible check, but Sherlock is right, his flat is not bugged anymore. Mycroft has not been here in many months, and when he walks up the stairs and lets himself in, the smell is painfully familiar. The mess. It is early enough that it is completely dark still. Sherlock is not in the living room. 

But the door to his bedroom is open. 

Mycroft walks in, and he can hear the rustle of Sherlock moving. He’s under the covers, but awake. Mycroft locks the door behind him and carefully sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress sinks under his weight.

“Six months.” Sherlock sounds hoarse.

This is meant to kill him, and they both know it. 

“Yes.” Mycroft’s eyes are slowly getting used to the dark, enough to know that Sherlock is looking at him. He reaches out, even though he does not know how much of his touch will be welcome. He can just reach Sherlock’s shoulder. It’s bare, and Sherlock’s skin feels warm under his fingertips. “Six months,” he agrees. 

Until they will see each other again, until Sherlock will have served his punishment, until… it seems arbitrary, now. 

Mycroft strokes Sherlock’s shoulder, lightly. 

There are cars passing by in the distance.

Sherlock sits up brusquely in a rustle of sheets, his chest a pale flash in the half-dark. Not to pull away, as Mycroft thought. Sherlock tangles their fingers, gives a little pull, and then lets go. 

_Ah._

Mycroft gets up, and takes off his coat. Hangs it up. His jacket, next. Waistcoat. He places his shoes together by the bed, socks rolled into them. His trousers folded to avoid creases. 

Sherlock does not comment on his perfectionism, his laughable need to keep things neat when they are everything but. Instead Sherlock is a silent presence, in this room. There, but also not. 

Mycroft lets his eyes find Sherlock’s as he undoes his cuffs. Sherlock is watching him, indeed, but he cannot read him, it is too dark. And Sherlock is not speaking either, this early morning. No gloating. Just tiredness.

And acceptance, Mycroft fears. 

When Mycroft finally folds his pants onto his pile of discarded clothing and he is naked, his skin feels somehow covered. By the dark, by the knowledge that Sherlock cannot read him like this, either.

Sherlock opens the covers for him, and Mycroft sees it for the gesture that it is. Mycroft gets in bed with him, and feels the warmth of the cotton on his skin, heated by Sherlock’s body. Sherlock turns to lie near him, and they collide in such banal places that it seems ridiculous that they should thrill him so. 

The arch of Sherlock’s foot. The side of Sherlock’s arm. His chin.

Sherlock’s skin is warm, and Mycroft can feel his fatigue in the heaviness of his limbs. He must not have slept much. In days, probably. 

Sherlock does not seem intent to kiss him, or to do much more than hold him, but Mycroft can feel the exhaustion lie on himself heavily as well. He has been controlling so much. And now he holds Sherlock, and knows that he nearly lost him once more, that he might again, that nothing is safe for either of them. 

And he will not. Just for one moment, Mycroft will not _pretend_. So he bends his body over Sherlock’s, and kisses him.

Sherlock allows him the touch, opens his lips under his. Mycroft tastes him, traces and teases in sensual, deep touches. Fast, playful ones, putting everything aside to, at least once more, kiss as if they were young. Kiss as if they were in love, as if they haven’t ruined one another in a hundred different ways. 

It is an illusion, of course. 

They will never be young again. They will never have innocence between them again, either. 

But Sherlock is warm and strong, and Mycroft wants to have him like this. To define what they are to one another in just this, in abandon and never-fully sated need, in touches given and taken, in grabbing hands, forever needing more. 

Always. 

Mycroft moves to Sherlock’s neck, licks there, sucks in hot circles, and presses his teeth into Sherlock’s skin. He moves lower and sucks Sherlock’s nipples, fast and in turn, and listens to the hitch Sherlock gets to his breath when he is aroused. 

Mycroft wraps his arms around Sherlock, strokes him, kisses him, and wants to never let him go. 

Sherlock haphazardly reaches to open his bedside table, and Mycroft agrees. _Yes, that._ He needs to feel him. 

Sherlock finds the lube and Mycroft takes it from him, and puts enough on his fingers. Then places two between Sherlock’s cheeks, and leans over him to kiss him, so he can feel Sherlock’s inhale when he breaches him. So he can feel the tell-tale twitch of Sherlock’s cock, lying trapped between both their bodies, when he reaches his prostate, strokes it, circles it as he knows Sherlock likes. 

Mycroft can feel Sherlock’s body under him, Sherlock’s mouth opening in undefined emotion, and it is beautiful, exhilarating, it has never not been life-altering. 

Sherlock asks, deep and warm, “Please.” And Mycroft stretches him as well as he can, he does not wish to hurt him, but touch is hurried, as well, he wants nothing more than to…

Mycroft pulls his fingers out, and Sherlock moves, sits up, throwing the covers off as he does so. 

Sherlock sits over him, a knee on each side, and opens a condom. Sherlock’s fingers hold his erection up and pull the condom over him, and Mycroft feels the sheer pleasure of that gesture. Even more so when Sherlock pulls him up to sit upright as well. Mycroft puts his hands over Sherlock’s back, strokes over his sides, his ribs, holds him close while Sherlock lowers himself onto him like that. Reckless, greedily, his legs trembling, until Mycroft can feel the warm flesh of his arse on his lap and they both exhale. 

Sherlock tilts his mouth towards him. Sherlock kisses him. Sherlock bends his body to him, and Mycroft holds him close as they are moving, together. Sherlock breathes wetly to the side of his face as he moves his hips in a fast, shuddering rhythm. 

“ _Yes._ ” A deep, heartfelt plea, and Mycroft pulls him closer immediately because of it. 

It is such a pleasure to hear the breathy quality of Sherlock’s voice in the near-dark, “Sherlock.” 

Sherlock _shudders_ for him, and Mycroft wants to hear him moan. But what Sherlock says is, “I’m…” his voice amazingly halting, “ _Mycroft._ ” 

Mycroft’s chest constricts with the idea that he is what Sherlock thinks of when they do this, that he is what drives his lust. “Yes.” 

Mycroft wraps his hand around Sherlock’s erection, and Sherlock groans. Mycroft feels Sherlock move over him, Sherlock’s nails scabbing his back, Sherlock’s mouth wild and warm and he could be make this last, but he cannot make himself do it. Mycroft just wants to have him, to feel him. He swallows away the tightness in his throat, and whispers, “Sherlock...”

Mycroft can feel Sherlock’s whole body tense, and then the vice of his orgasm around him. The warmth of it on his hand and belly, Sherlock’s mouth opening, lips falling slack. 

“Sherlock…” Mycroft thrusts for himself now, into him, feels a rush of dizziness, his orgasm building. _Sherlock, mine, my…_ Mycroft comes in a shudder, just as Sherlock pulls him in, and it feels as if they are one, just for a moment, nothing but a great rush of desire. 

Mycroft holds Sherlock close, kisses him indulgently, just a moment more. 

And then carefully pulls away. 

Mycroft pulls the condom off, and lies down on the bed. 

Sherlock moves closer, so his face is near Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft puts a hand over Sherlock’s shoulder, and holds him loosely. Some part of him feels terrified. _I cannot imagine a life without you._

Slowly, Sherlock relaxes into his touch. His breathing evens out. 

He falls asleep. Sherlock breathes evenly, softly against his chest, and Mycroft holds him there, somewhat surprised at the fact that he did. 

He watches the light change quality; slowly illuminate the room’s corners, and decorations. 

There is a picture of Mycroft and Sherlock as children on the dresser. Mycroft has seen it often, it has been here for years, but today he finds his eyes lingering on it. 

There is nothing that destroys as much as love does. 

Sherlock sleeps in stops and starts, and when he moves away, Mycroft lets him go. Eventually, Sherlock blinks, and looks at the ceiling. Then glances over. 

“How long?” His voice is rough with sleep. 

Mycroft checks Sherlock’s phone on the bedside table. “You have some time still.” But Mycroft meets Sherlock’s eyes, and says what he has been thinking of saying. He wishes for it to be quite clear. “You are aware that you will not die.” 

Sherlock nods, briefly. Hollowly. 

Sherlock does not ask why he will not die. What Mycroft will do to protect him, how this will end. Mycroft wonders if Sherlock does not wish to hope, or if he might be afraid of the answer. _I will destroy them all, if that is what it takes, Sherlock._

They get out of bed, in silence. 

Wash and dress, and have some tea standing up in Sherlock’s cold and dirty kitchen. Then drive to the airfield. 

There is nothing more to say between them, now. This is as much of a goodbye as they have ever had. But still Mycroft does not stop looking at Sherlock, and wishing for things that he is not certain how to formulate, even in his own mind. For Sherlock to be safe, for this not to be true, for their lives to be different, somehow. For options. 

But there are none. 

Sherlock says goodbye to John on the tarmac. Mycroft watches him go with pain and regret, but mainly love thrumming deeply inside of him. There is no doubt in his mind that he that he will arrange this to be a very temporary exile. He will see Sherlock again within months; he will hold him again, safe and whole. 

The plane leaves. 

And then Mycroft’s phone goes. Then there is the image of Moriarty, grotesque, the threat of it. And Mycroft can feel the weight of the last few years come crushing down on his shoulders. 

But he knows what he has to do, and calls Sherlock back. _Come home, brother mine._

_It’s time we fight._

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
